


The Sufficiency of Service

by mirwalker



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 105,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirwalker/pseuds/mirwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected arrival--on a dark and stormy night in 1912 (Season 1)--sets the great house on edge, and sets up lasting secrets for one unsuspecting resident. Originally titled <em>Guy(s) Night</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Much to my amused chagrin, a friend's video recommendation has caught my binge-watching fancy, and promptly loosed a plot bunny in my head. Sometimes I wonder why I can't just *watch* good television, and enjoy it at that…!

**_Tuesday, 5 November 1912_ **

The shattering glass and piercing shriek were almost simultaneous to the brilliant flash outside. Both were followed instantly by a peal of thunder, and then a complete silence in the previously chat-filled drawing room.

All eyes turned to where Lady Edith held gloved hands over her open mouth; and a dark stain spread down her dress, matched by one on the floor.

"Edith?" the Earl chided the sudden and inappropriate exclamation. He and several others looked disapprovingly at her childish reaction to the storm, the crystal breakage and wine spill, and, perhaps most egregious of all, the interruption of the otherwise charming evening.

"My dear, are you alright?" the Countess added motherly concern to her similar judgment.

Edith pointed at the floor-to-ceiling length glass across the room. "There was a figure there. In the window. A man. A bloodied man!"

The Dowager Countess gasped herself, "Such language, young lady!"

Edith glanced around worriedly, as the surprised stares continued to focus on her. "No grandmamma, a man… _covered_ in blood." _Once again, would no one grant her any credit? Would they all always assume so little of her, her thoughts and her actions?_

All eyes shifted swiftly in the indicated direction, where rich draperies framed black rectangles of wet glass—all that separated the gathered family from… nothing. Another brief burst across the sky showed no one, and nothing, in sight beyond the family's reflections.

"I am not imagining it," the middle daughter anticipated the looming response to the lack of supporting reality to her claims. "I happened to glance past mama, just at the long lightening flash. And there he was, plain as you all are. Dripping wet, reaching out to me."

The presumptive heir shared a look with his mother, neither seeing anything beyond the room, but also not sure how to respond to their cousin's vision, or larger cousins' reactions to her.

Mary sipped her cordial, quietly amused by the whole scene, and wholly happy not to be the center of this attention.

"Will no one believe me?" Edith sank to the edge of the chair, beside a consoling Sybil, more upset at the family's disbelief than at the apparition itself. "Will we not take a look to care for ourselves, if not for him?"

Feeling the need to do more than simply allow her claims to continue, the Earl walked to the window, and—cautiously—looked out into the drive and yard. "My dear, it is cold and pouring outside, and has been for some time. No one would have any good reason to be out there."

"No one worth knowing," the Dowager stage whispered through pursed lips.

"Precisely. Isn't that all the more reason to make sure?" Edith pointed out, angry now, if not entirely surprised, at the lack of compassion or interest. "That someone _is_ out in this weather clearly suggests that something _is_ the matter. That it _should_ be looked into… Oh," she exclaimed, standing suddenly and heading for the door, "If no one will, I shall have a look myself."

Her mother stood, as the apparent hysteria had moved from surprising, to irritating, to downright disruptive. "You'll do no such thing, young lady. The weather, that dress, never mind dinner-"

As she spoke, Carson quietly entered the room, ready to nod that dinner's readiness to the Lady of the house. Seeing several family members gathered around the distressed Lady Edith, he asked under arched eyebrows, "Is everything alright, Milady?"

"Ah, Mr Carson," interrupted Matthew, in the hopes of smoothing the apparent impasse of wills. "Lady Edith believes she's seen someone outside the window. As she changes and the family moves in for dinner, I wonder whether you might spare a member of staff to join me in a quick round of the house? Just to put all our minds at ease. That we haven't left someone out in this downpour."

Grimacing and wringing his fingers at the suggestion that the evening was going off-script, at sparing any of his workforce for a drenching tangent while dinner was waiting, and—God forbid—at their possibly finding another soul to care for this evening, the butler looked to his employer for direction.

The Earl glanced to his wife, who cast back an expectant look. But expectant of what, he wasn't entirely sure.

Seeing his daughter's own plea for support, and knowing all eyes were now on him, he smiled and nodded, while heading to the door himself. "If everyone will please proceed to dinner, Mr Crawley, Carson and I shall sort out a quick search party."

With a mix of grumbling and niceties, the ladies of the house made their way across the saloon, Edith breaking off up the staircase for some distance and a fresh dress.

"Should we not wait for everyone to be seated?" asked Mary, doe-eyed.

"Gracious no, dear," her grandmother corrected, taking her arm and keeping her moving, "If the gallant barrister wishes to indulge the deluge, who are we to hold him up...?" She added in a whisper, "And a drenched dog is unlikely to win any affection at the master's table…"

Behind them, the men huddled to manage their competing obligations. Both other men looked to the Earl for his intentions. "Matthew, I appreciate your offer; but I think we might be able to handle this without dousing any of those involved with or invited to dinner..." He turned to his right hand man, suggesting, "I realize it's late, and testing Noah himself out there; and that the bulk of your staff are committed to dinner service. But in the interest of peace of mind, and peace more generally, could you please have Mr Bates take the hall boys on a quick check outside?"

"Cousin Robert, I sincerely don't mind a little rain, to help put Lady Edith's concern to rest," Matthew protested being removed from the resolution.

"Admirable, my boy," the Earl assured with a hand to his shoulder, and a knowing smile, "But our duty is to the dinner and its conversation. There'll be no escaping that for any of us." He looked back to the butler for a confirmation.

Unhappily, but dutifully, Carson agreed, "Very well, sir. It will only take me moment to relay the instruction, and return for dinner service. Please pass along my apologies to the family for that _slight_ delay…"

"It shall give Lady Edith time to change, and so keep us all included."

With a deep breath, each man turned toward his assigned task.

* * *

After the meal, the ladies returned to the drawing room for a final round of conversation, in hopes the storm might break enough for two cars' departure. Lord Grantham and Mr Crawley hung back to enjoy a sherry and a moment's silence before joining them.

"Milord," Carson interrupted from the service door as soon as they'd poured the drinks, "I do apologize; but Mr Bates would like a word with us."

The Earl's brow wrinkled, as his valet had earlier sent word that they'd found no one outside, as expected. "Very well."

Nodded in, the caned man spoke humbly, as always, but with particular seriousness. "My Lord, Mr Crawley, I apologize for the interruption, but I wanted to catch you both as soon as appropriate."

Both gentlemen set down their glasses at the grim tone.

Bates nodded, and placed both hands on his cane. "I don't mean to raise alarm with you or their Ladyships; but I think it best we keep everyone here, inside for the night. We could use the storm as an excuse…"

"Bates, whyever for?" the Earl wondered. "The rain is still strong, but that's not enough to hold anyone here."

"You said you'd found nothing outside," Matthew reminded, connecting that the former soldier's concern was less about the weather.

"I said we hadn't found any _one_ , sir," Bates corrected slightly.

Robert and Matthew sat upright at the ominous distinction.

Bates looked to Carson, who pursed his lips, but nodded him to continue.

Stepping forward, Bates narrated as he pulled a wadded handkerchief from his pocket, "While the rain will have washed away anything less substantial, I found this… at the front door." He opened his bundle between the two men in white ties, to reveal another folded square of fine white fabric. Only this one was damp and stained with unmistakable deep, red splatters.


	2. Stowaway

**_early Wednesday, 6 November 1912_ **

Some Guy Fawkes Night it had quickly become. While no commemorative fireworks had been planned at this Yorkshire estate, the poor weather more than washed away even the idea of such festivity. The awkward getting-to-know amongst the cousins had proceeded politely, if as coolly as the damp autumn day. And Edith's outburst and claim had added only passing excitement, especially to the men who understood that there might actually be a bloodied figure awash in the storm.

And so, making the suggested excuse about the weather, Matthew and Robert had managed to convince their respective mothers not to venture out. That set the house and ladies' maids hurriedly preparing three extra bedrooms, and doing their best to provide adequate nightwear and night-readiness care for the unintended boarders.

Meanwhile on the main level, the footmen, valet and butler quietly made to secure the house against any additional, unplanned visitors. Misters Carson and Bates had not been specific about what led the Earl to believe these steps were necessary; and that mystery did little to calm concerns the male staff could surmise and had to shoulder.

They had confirmed secure all the doors and windows at or below ground level, to ensure that no one would have easy access through an unlocked or ajar opening. They had turned on all the lights in those rooms, and opened all the draperies on those windows, to cast as much light as possible into the surrounding darkness, and to be easily sure no one was at or through the windows. And, they'd opened all the doors on the ground floor, so that suspicious sounds would carry as far as possible.

But having such defense placed and able to be monitored, was only useful if someone was up and about to monitor them. For to have a night watch, required a watcher. And so, after an always already long day, and a larger than usual dinner service, first footman Thomas nonetheless found himself still awake and on duty as midnight chimed on the grandfather clock across the room.

To his presumed credit, Mister Crawley had insisted that he take a shift, or at least stay up as well, to carry part of the burden. But his replacing a footman was dismissed out of hand; and though Thomas had certainly not wanted a chaperone, he found himself destined to be alone and on patrol at a point when he could have been getting some well-earned sleep.

Unable to avoid that disproportionate duty, he had volunteered for the first watch, presuming any threat would be least likely to strike immediately after the house had clearly been awake. And, generously staying up later now would earn him the rare pleasure of sleeping in a little extra in the morning; whereas foolish William had been up later than usual, and now would be up hours earlier than usual to relieve him, with the promise of a few extra winks in the undetermined future. No, if he must sacrifice, best to go first, get it over with while least supervised, and at the same time gain certain sleep and appreciation from the superiors.

Mrs Patmore had left out a tea service, with quick instructions on keeping one stove burner stoked to boil a kettle. That pointed out, and with a final, stern look from Mister Carson, Thomas was left lord of the lonely lower two levels of the large house.

His initial worry that something might just happen as the storm continued to rage outside, quickly gave way to a wicked pleasure that he could walk, sit and even sip wherever and what he liked. He had a sherry in the library, trying each of the chairs and settees in turn. He had a biscuit seated at the head of the dining room table, and mimed ordering the butler to serve it, cut it up, feed it to him and then wipe his mouth. And he almost lit up a cigar in the study; but had no easy way to cover the smell or burnt evidence.

Eventually, bored and tired, and unable to think of a justifiable reason to wake William early, he took advantage of a break in the rains to step out the service entrance for a smoke. The back court was a virtual lake; and water continued to stream and drip in from various points around the big home above. Sending off the old ladies in the morning, if they were able to get away at all, was going to mean certain muddy messes for the staff at the front of the house. But, hopefully, and smartly, he'd be able to sleep through that.

Thomas was deep in imagining a splattered Mister Carson, his soaked eyebrows dangling like draperies over unhappy eyes, when a loud sneeze nearby evoked a habitual, "Bless you," from him.

Eyes instantly wide, he held his breath as instinctually, realizing that, if he'd heard correctly, he was not alone in the dark, enclosed space. And he was certain he'd heard correctly, and that the sneeze came from a stack of crates just beside the door.

He looked about, wondering whether William or someone else hadn't approached behind him, or who might have snuck around from the front to try some soggy prank.

"Someone there?" he asked, loudly enough, somewhat hoping for no response. But when none came, that actually was proof of nothing.

"Hello?" he called again, stepping carefully toward the possible source of the possible sound. "Who's there?"

Only the drip and trickle of rainwater answered.

Thinking it might be best to wait and bring William out when he was soon up, Thomas hesitated. But all he could do to prevent the mystery person's escape in the meanwhile, would be to stand on the spot until William came out to find him, if he did. But if instead, he—Thomas—were to find, and apprehend or run off said interloper, then he wouldn't have to share the family's gratitude. But what proof would he have if—

The crates moved.

Without thinking further, Thomas stepped up and flipped up the tarpaulin draped over the low stack, and jumped slightly on exposing a crouching figure in the shadowed space between the wall and the tower of boxes.

A shared startled gasp passed between them, as the shivering form asked haltingly of its backlit revelator, "Are you… you an angel?"

Thomas scoffed at the odd and unexpected compliment, marveling at its irony when applied to him, and still flattered by the perception. Smirking despite, or because of, his alertness for possible danger, he chose not to be too quick with an outright denial. "I'm… not often called that."

"If so," the perhaps young, but certainly man seemed to tremble beyond his chattering teeth, "You must know… there has been some mistake… in my Judgement… for I am not worthy… of your presence, …of this Kingdom."

"England has its moments," the dry man acknowledged, quickly tired of the other's self-indulgent religiosity. "But you're not dead, just trespassing."

The man gasped; but again Thomas couldn't tell if he was surprised, short on air or simply sobbing. At least until he spoke with newfound anguish, "Then please sir,… have mercy… Finish me?" He lowered his head and held out a shaking hand, pleading for and surrendering himself to the end he seemed fixed on finding.

"I'm no angel, but I'm no murderer, either," Thomas corrected, now done with the whole cold, damp exchange. He stepped closer to get the man up and on his fatalistic way. "But I'll face me own judgement if you're found out here, in any state, after my watch. Away you go!"

Taking hold of the proffered hand, he pulled the man out into the slightly more substantial light filtering out of the doorway. Finally getting a view of the person, not just the fugitive, Thomas paused at the sight before him: A dirtied, bruised and soaking young man, whose light, wavy hair was striped with blood, and whose once fine clothing fell in stained tatters about him. He clutched one arm to his side; the other, he continued to hold up and out in front of him, still staving off or pleading to his discoverer.

"I beg you, sir," the man whispered again, struggling to remain upright on his knees. "I've no wish..., and no strength…, to go on. If you won't help me along…, then please …forget me to the weather …and my fate. I won't judge."

Thomas stepped to one side, allowing the hall light to land more completely on his supplicant.

The narrow face was streaked with dirt, rain, sweat and perhaps tears, and peppered with open cuts; his upper lip was also split; and one dark eye was nearly swollen shut. As bloodied and beseeching as Lady Edith had accurately described him, he nonetheless didn't seem the grave threat to home and hearth against which they had all rallied so. In fact, were it not for his condition and the context, he might even be considered handsome; he could easily work at, live in, or be invited into such a grand manor as Downton.

"What happened to you?" Thomas asked, curious and trying to determine his next actions with the reluctant stowaway.

"I was set upon, on the road, sir. Robbed and beaten. I ran, and… in the distance, I saw the palace lights…"

 _Palace indeed!_ "What's your name?"

Pause. "John."

"What's your _real_ name, then…?" Thomas asked with a smile at being onto the attempted feign.

"Ian," the visitor looked up directly at his inquisitor for the first time, and smiled weakly, caught. Despite his shudders and huddled posture, he maintained his one-eyed stare, perhaps impressed at his interrogator's continued insight, or at least unsure of his next action with the information.

 _He isn't stupid enough to be overly forthcoming, or to try to hide the truth from me. That's two points in his favor._ "Take off your clothes."

"What?!" Ian started, with slightly more energy.

"I'm not going to hurt ya. But you can't very well come inside dripping wet… Come to the door, and at least get off your outerwear. You can wrap yourself in this," he offered a rough quilt they used to cover luggage in bad weather.

"No, sir. Thank you, sir. But you'll just have me… report to the police, and… I can't explain it, but… I can't."

"Of course, you can't," Thomas shook his head, knowing he should have guessed it couldn't be so simple.

The rain began to fall again, with every indication that it would be returning to its former fury.

"We won't be sending for anyone tonight, and can sort it all out at a dryer and warmer moment." He held out the blanket, shaking it impatiently.

Sneezing again, Ian hung his head, and paused—considering his options? Hoping another would be offered? Or just gathering his strength to stand?

"Please?" Thomas asked softly, honestly meaning more than to be relieved of standing in the cold and wet himself.

With no answer beside dragging himself to his feet and offering a resigned, if trusting look, Ian approached as instructed and let his host help ease off the remnants of his shirt, vest, trousers, socks and solitary shoe.

_Third virtue's a charm; he's hesitant, but still willing to trust me, at least to some point._

Thomas left the drenched and stained clothes just outside the re-locked door; and, when confident the cold and stiff guest would not drip mud or water through the halls, helped him as quickly and quietly as possible up several flights to his own bedroom. Leaving instructions for Ian to stay put and silent, he went back downstairs to put on some hot water, and to stash the tattered evidence in those same crates for later handling.

He was just cleaning up the last of the mixed footprints when a groggy William appeared at the foot of the stairs. "What's happened here, then?" he asked with a yawn.

"I was having a smoke after many boring hours of walking in circles for no reason this un-fine night, when I should've been sleeping. And the storm picked up again, just as I did." He shoved past, and dropped the rags in the common laundry.

Nodding toward the hall boys' alcove, he motioned the sleepy second footman into the kitchen. "As you're on 'til morning, I'd suggest some tea and biscuits, and to keep moving; that's all that's kept me up for nothing… I'm going to take a few and a kettle up, for a quick, warm wash before I'm out until luncheon."

"Luncheon?" William gaped, wondering how he thought he'd get to sleep until then.

Looking sympathetic, but unapologetic, Thomas suggested, "If I were you, William, I'd ask Mister Carson for a nap break once the house is awake. Surely he and Mister Bates can handle a house full of women." Not waiting for any reply, he handed William a cookie, and headed upstairs. "Enjoy your rounds, soldier."

* * *

He found Ian sitting unmoved from the chair where he'd left him, dryer, only barely warmer, and now half-asleep for the improvements. Breaking up a biscuit, he fed him a little, not sure whether the lack of resistance was a good sign. Handing him a little tea, Ian was not able to grip the cup without violently shaking it empty. And in the settled light of the bedroom, Thomas realized just how pale, battered and cold the man still was, how close he'd come to not hearing him outside, only for a body to be found when next the supplier picked up his empties.

"We've gotta get you cleaned and warmed up… Can you stand?"

His conditions combining to sap his strength, Ian could barely pull himself upright.

As he did, Thomas took off his own jacket and good shirt to keep them from getting soiled too. With a glance and listen for any other movement on the corridor, he all but carried his guest to the servants' bath round the corner in the hall.

Unable to assist or assert himself, Ian couldn't help but let himself be settled gently into the tub.

"The undershirt's doing nothing for you; and I can lend you another," Thomas explained. "It may hurt a little, but we need to get it off you."

Gritting his teeth, Ian whimpered slightly as the sticky, fine fabric was peeled off his legion of cuts and bruises. Though thin, he was obviously no stranger to hard work; smooth muscles and a few older scars, affirmed the calloused hands. And, while not actually blue, he lacked any outdoor occupation-suggesting tan lines, and was unreasonably pale, even by English standards.

He leaned forward and used his good arm to brace himself on the side of the basin, as Thomas added a few inches of delivered water, and then poured a warm rinse over him, carefully wiped his wounds, and gently worked the matted blood from his hair. As the cleaner worked, Ian flinched occasionally at a sudden touch to a wound, and continued to shiver as he sat in his knickers and the reddening broth.

"That's better. Can you lay back? I'll get your face."

As Thomas wrung out the washcloth, Ian began to settle back, but then firmly grabbed his nearer forearm. Through tight, quivering lips and under the intense gaze of one good eye, Ian whispered, "Why?"

"Angel," his benefactor responded simply, and with a genuine smile and gentle wipe of a wet eye. He didn't elaborate as to whom he meant.

Resigned to or relaxing in the vulnerable care, Ian released his grip, and let his rescuer finish cleaning him off. The erasable evidence of his evening removed, Thomas applied plasters to the largest gashes on his brow and jaw, and ointment to them all.

Draping him with a towel, Ian's guide helped him pat dry, then back to the bedroom. Swapping the towel for a spare nightgown, Thomas left him to get the wet pants off while he erased their evidence from the bath.

On returning, he explained, "I don't have anywhere else I can put you, where you're not likely to be found. So you take the bed; and we'll sort out things in the morning…"

"Thank you, but… still so..." Sneeze! Ian shivered visibly, as Thomas threw a blanket for himself over the nearby chair, before pulling the covers up over the sorely reclining roommate.

Glancing about the sparsely furnished space, and knowing the empty rooms nearby had nothing but bedframes in them, Thomas sighed. Taking a deep breath, he propped the chair under the doorknob, doused the light, dropped his own trousers, and crawled into his occupied bed.

He felt Ian tense; but the same direct, front-to-front contact made it clear the young man was still very cool to the touch and trembling for at least that experience. "The blankets only hold in heat," Thomas explained as he wrapped his arms around the form too worn and weary to resist. "I think you were out there so long, you're not making much. I'll do nothing unbecoming, I promise."

Taller than his bedmate, Thomas tucked the curls under his chin, and reassured, "You're going to be alright."

Ian had clenched his fists between them, against Thomas' chest, perhaps as his best defense against the intimate imposition. But soon, as the shared warmth—physical and charitable—settled between them, he clutched at his savior.

As the shivering slowly subsided, Thomas felt the underlying shake of quiet sobs, as his ward cried quietly in his arms—afraid, ashamed, exhausted, comforted. "I've got you now. I promise," he assured. And he meant it.


	3. Aftermath

As the senior staff had expected, the Earl of Grantham had slept neither well nor long, and so neither had they, really. He found that Bates had left him a note in his dressing room, inviting him to ring at whatever time he was up. (While it was his right to ring at any hour, the indirect permission gave him clear conscience to call, lest he hesitate on fear of waking them, or think them not capable of serving when needed.)

And so, when his bell rang in the servants' hall, Bates was ready to head up to him, passing kitchen staff well into a larger than usual breakfast, and house maids already about lighting, heating and cleaning the main rooms.

"Are you sure you'll be alright on your own for breakfast service?" Mrs Hughes asked as she fell in step with Mister Carson exiting his study to confirm the summons and note the time.

"I expect so, even with the larger attendance," he acknowledged her unspoken concern. "I felt it better to let William sleep a little now, during the moments of lighter demand, so that we can have him and Thomas up to assist with seeing off the Dowager Countess and the Crawleys."

She nodded at that wisdom, pausing at the foot of the service stairs to confess, "I'm certainly glad the rain seems to have let up this morning, as keeping them all attended and occupied for a second day might well have been too much for us."

"An occasion to which I insist we would have risen bravely," he assured.

"Aye; but I'm still grateful we won't be put upon to prove it," she smiled, and headed up to check how the main rooms were coming along.

* * *

"Well enough; thank you, sir. How did his Lordship sleep?"

"Not well, Carson, I must admit," shared the Earl, as he served himself from the already ready buffet in the morning room. "Though Bates says there was no further incident or appearance of anyone…"

"True, milord. And unless his Lordship or the family has plans this morning which will require a footman, I've given Thomas and William the opportunity for a quick nap, so they'll be back in best shape for the remainder of the day."

"That should be fine, Carson. I imagine our guests will want to be on their way home as swiftly as possible; and things here should return to normal from there. I expect we'll need to survey the house and grounds for any damage from wind or water; that is, if the weather continues to improve…" He glanced out at the lingering grey, if dry, morning.

"Very good, milord. May I ask whether your Lordship has decided what action, if any, to take… beyond the house itself? Given what Mr Bates did discover." While he'd not admit to his own curiosity about the bloody handkerchief, he did have a legitimate interest in whether his staff would be impacted by whatever the master might intend.

Putting down his first swig of tea, Robert nodded mirthlessly, having not resolved that puzzle overnight either. "I'm not sure what we can do, to be honest. What do really have to tell, and to whom? My daughter thinks she glimpsed a figure outside a window, in the midst of a terrible storm; and we happened to find a muddied scrap of fabric that could have blown in on those same winds…"

"Good points, sir. I suppose the embroidered initial had…"

"What did you find? What initial?" asked the unexpected, and unannounced Lady Edith, as she swept in and made directly for the tea service.

"Good morning, Edith," Robert reverted to the daily script, with a dirty glance at his instantly regretful butler, and a forced smile to his middle daughter. "You are up early today."

"So are you," she responded observantly. "I didn't sleep well, given the fright we had last night." She placed her cup at her seat, and moved to serve herself a small plate and some additional information, to start the day. "I noticed the lights stayed on much of the night; did someone stay up?"

Robert and Carson shared a knowing look, which the butler took at an indication he could take that question, as an opportunity to redeem himself. "Sharp-eyed, as always, your Ladyship. I hadn't meant to concern you, but given the weather, I had the footmen check occasionally for any wind or water damage to the house. I didn't want any leaks to welcome us all this morning…"

Robert nodded him a 'well-played' behind his newspaper, as Edith took her seat, unconvinced.

"And you said you'd found something, an embroidered initial on something? What was that?"

Carson was immediately busy tidying the breakfast spread.

Sighing, Robert folded the paper, cut into his eggs and continued to focus on those objects before him. "On their soggy sojourn at your bequest last night, one of the hall boys found a kerchief the storm seems to have blown onto the front drive." He put a bite into his mouth, and continued reading to signal how insignificant the report was.

Reading their discomfort as withholding from her, Edith pushed doggedly, if cheerfully. "And the embroidery you mentioned?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Edith," her father set down his utensils in frustration. "Amongst the many leaves and limbs invariably strewn across the estate," he nodded out the windows, "was a man's handkerchief with a 'G' monogram. I'll admit to having lost it myself on the grounds at some past point, if you'll please drop this fixation with your tempest-addled figment."

She seemed a little shocked by his stronger-than-expected response, but realized that it meant she was actually on to something. In fact, "Papa, you don't monogram your kerchiefs. None of us does."

Both men paused at having that obvious hole in their dismissal noticed so easily.

"I do wonder who our mysterious 'Mister G' is," Edith pondered aloud, her mind racing with possible explanations for the mystery figure and his motives, now that there was physical evidence that someone _had_ been outside. "I suppose it's too soon for the morning paper to have anything about the storm or its effects?"

Not wishing or able to pursue the point any further, Robert merely nodded that was the case, and went back to dicing his eggs and ham.

"Good morning all," said Mary as she and Sybil arrived. "Well, it seems the busy morning has woken many of us early. Our apologies to you and the staff, Carson."

"No need, your Ladyship; we are always happy to be of assistance."

"And Edith, how did you sleep," her older sister asked with derision, as she made her plate, "knowing the bogeyman was outside calling for you?"

"Papa said the staff checked, and didn't find anyone," reminded Sybil, trying to be reassuring.

"Well, they didn't see the sun out there either; but here it is this morning nonetheless. And don't mock," Edith defended, thrilled to have possible proof against her chronic disbelievers. "Papa's just told me they did find something unexpected after all. A monogrammed handkerchief…"

Her sisters paused at that surprise development, and looked to their father for further explanation.

He rolled his eyes at the subject that would not die, and seized on movement at the door to change the subject. "Ah, Matthew! Cousin Isobel?" he stood, surprised to see her, as were the girls and the butler. "Mrs Hughes would have been more than happy to have a tray brought to your room."

"Good morning, all. There's no need for room service," Isobel demurred with a wide smile, oblivious or indifferent to the expectation that, as a married—if widowed—woman, she would take breakfast in bed. "With due compliments to the kitchen, we did come for the company, not the cuisine. And I can only get the former by joining in."

Stoic nods ringed the table and room.

"Will the Dowager Countess be joining us?" she asked as Matthew directed her to the morning self-service.

"I doubt we'll see Grandmama at all, to be honest," sighed Mary. "She'll have had a tray in her room, and then will have Carson whisk her out to the car quietly. She wouldn't be caught dead before an audience, even family, in the same frock two days in a row…"

As both the guest Crawleys stood at the buffet in exactly the same clothes they'd arrived in the night before, their host shot an 'unnecessary' look at his eldest daughter, and changed the subject. "You'll all be happy to know that we had no developments overnight beyond rainfall. The staff reported nothing for our vigilance, thankfully."

"Just an apparition who carries handkerchiefs monogrammed with our family initial…" corrected Edith, flush with vindication and curiosity. She'd been correct, and now had a mystery to solve.

* * *

"Well, well, look who's finally decided to wake and pull his weight today," O'Brien teased on entering the service stairwell as a bleary Thomas trudged past.

"I worked all night, thank you very much" he reminded, stifling a yawn. "Precious sleep hours dedicated to walking in silent circles, 'cause her Fraidy-ship has a vivid imagination and craves attention."

"Don't we all?" she smiled as they reached the kitchen. Handing him the tray to return for her, she suggested knowingly, "I know I want to hear all about your late night… circles. But I must now face my own adventures with the Dowager." Showing no excitement at the prospect, she turned back up the stairs.

Wondering whether she knew to ask about his night's adventure, or just suspected he'd enjoyed his unsupervised run of the house, he stepped into the busy kitchen, well into breakfast cleanup and luncheon preparations. Daisy grinned up at him across her mixing bowl as he set down the tray, grabbing an uneaten strip of bacon off it as he did.

"Ah, thank you, Thomas," Mrs Patmore almost intercepted him. "If you'll set that over here, we'll be able to all but wrap the morning dishes. I imagine you and William will be hungry, and can't wait on midday?"

"I would much appreciate even a quick plate of morning leftovers, if that would help get them out of your way."

"So helpful you are…," she smirked. "Daisy, make him a plate from the warming dish, won't ya?" Rolling her eyes as them both, she plucked the tray from between them, and headed off to disassemble it as she assembled the last of luncheon in her head.

"Thank you, Daisy," Thomas said, with his warmest smile, as she blushed and fetched the hodgepodge pan from the stove's side compartment. "As William is likely to get up closer to tea, any chance I might get a little extra to hold over this tired night watchman?"

"I shouldn't," she demurred. "It's half his…"

"True, but he was able to enjoy some of your delicious cookies much later than I was. And he is still sleeping; so how hungry can he be?"

Happy to please the twinkling eye turned her way, Daisy quickly whipped up a bowl of porridge and a plate of toast. "I'll bring some tea in a moment."

"You take great care of me…, of us," Thomas winked, and headed to the servants hall. Slurping up some less portable oatmeal for himself, he took advantage of having the room to himself to make and pocket some jam, butter and bacon sandwiches with the toast.

Daisy set a tea service beside him, and seemed to tarry in his grateful smile, until Bates' voice from the corridor sent her scurrying, "Ah, Thomas, there you are. Mr Carson had just sent me to wake you, as our guests are likely to be departing shortly. He'd like to give William a little while longer…"

"…But I'm to be woken immediately? That's gratitude."

"He'll be happy to know that I have found you, and so spirited as well," Bates deadpanned.

Thomas fired back a sarcastic smile of thanks.

Bates leaned in before circling back to the hallway, "He might also be rather displeased with what I _did_ find when I opened your door to see why you weren't answering…"


	4. Escaliers & Escalation

Thomas had never taken the stairs so quickly in all his years at Downton. He'd waited until Bates was well away, feigned to Daisy that he'd forgotten something upstairs, and then rushed up so he could 'return promptly' to see their guests out. Sheer panic fueled his climb, and was probably the only reason he wasn't gasping for breath halfway up.

Thankfully, he'd also long practiced taking the stairs silently—the better to move, or tarry attentively, without calling attention to himself. And so he gave no one the knowledge, much less Bates the satisfaction, that he was thundering up to his room in the obvious haste that was the reality.

Slowing only as he reached his own door, he glanced around for anyone else about, knocked and slipped inside, whispering, "Ian?" as he did so.

Back against the closed door and finally breathing heavily, he looked about frantically, seeing only a pile of clothes in one corner, and a disheveled bed. No sign of his visitor, or of anything other than what might be his own lack of house-required tidiness.

"Ian?" he barked a little louder, as if the summons would somehow make the guest visible when he was clearly not there.

_Did I imagine the whole thing? No, he was cold, but very real; and he was here this morning! Where had he gone? Where could he have gone? In a strange house? Injured? Oh God, who would see him?!_

He was just about step out into hallway, to begin searching room to room, top to bottom if he had to, when a muffled cough and a light scratching sound caught his ear.

"Ian?" he hoped aloud, checking under the bed, at the window, and finally turning toward a clearer knock… from inside his heavy wardrobe. He pulled it open, only to see to his hanging shirts, slacks and jackets.

"Here," a low voice scratched from behind and below his clothes.

Squatting, he found his battered roommate crammed tightly into the box's bottom, knees tucked tight against his chest.

"Can't get up. Stuck. Sore…," Ian admitted through clenched lips.

Thomas helped him gingerly unfold and stretch himself out into the room, mindful of the only slightly settled cuts and bruises that dotted him, like a living map of misadventures.

Flushed and warm from having been cooped up, Ian wavered a little on standing. Seeing his mix of stiff and swoon, Thomas settled him on the bed's edge, and perched beside him, holding his good, left hand, and supporting his back. More injury, or noise, is just what they didn't need. "What happened?" he asked, not being able to guess the details.

In his longest sharing since they met, Ian shared with more energy, if similar scratch in his voice. "There was an odd… shufflin' at the door, and then a knock. A man's voice called out, lookin' for someone… All I could think was to hide. I barely fit," he smiled weakly.

"You did well," Thomas smiled back, with a mix of relief and pride. But, "Did he see you? The hobbled man?"

"I don't think so. I'd closed myself in, and so only heard the door open. He seemed to chuckle; and then closed the door and walked away."

Thomas sighed. _So Bates had only seen the unacceptable state of the room, not its inexplicable and inexcusable occupant. The_ mess _was what he was threatening me with…_

"Could I have some water, please?" Ian coughed.

"Of course." Thomas poured him a glass from the nightstand, and returned to his side, remembering an additional treat. "And, I brought you a little something to eat, just until I work out something more substantial." He offered the hastily-made sandwiches, which Ian hastily tore into.

"How are you feeling?" He could see Ian still moved stiffly; still favored his left arm; and his eye was even worse looking this morning.

"I _am_ warmer," Ian smiled a positive development at him through his ailments, "thanks to you."

That warmed Thomas to know, to hear, in a way he wasn't expecting. However, he didn't like that Ian was actually warm to the touch this morning. His hiding ruddiness hadn't faded entirely. And the cough was new as well.

Ian continued, through a mouthful of mushy bread and spread, "The man was lookin' for 'Thomas'; that you?"

A nod and smile, as the mutual introduction had finally been made. And Thomas liked the way this odd arrival pronounced his name, too.

"Then, thank you, Mister _Thomas,_ " Ian offered, without breaking single-eye contact. "I expect you saved me from the storm last night, though I don't really know why. Or where I am… What town I'm in, or what room in the palace. Is this really yours?"

"The palace?" Thomas laughed. "You're not in a palace, Ian. This is a grand manor house, to be sure; but it's just the country estate of the Earl of Grantham."

Ian's expression showed that meant nothing to him.

"You don't get out much, do you?"

Ian's expression turned to concern, as if he'd done something wrong.

"Not to worry. It's not my house; but this is my room. I'm just an… indispensable member of the Earl's staff. And speaking of," he stood, "I have to get back downstairs, else they'll be looking for me again soon enough."

Brushing a stray curl off the discoloring eye, Thomas suggested, "For now, just know that you are safe, I promise… if very much a secret to the rest of the house. So, for a little while longer, I must ask you to stay put; try to get some rest. And until I get back with more food and time, I'll make sure no one else comes looking for me. But maybe put the chair in front of the door, just in case? We can talk more later." Getting a nod as Ian chewed another smashed bite, he headed to the door, and looked about for any unwanted eyes or ears.

"Mister Thomas?" Ian called out softly behind him, in keeping with his laying low instructions.

He poked his head back in, to see the pale, blond, white-draped stranger sitting tall in his dark room. "Yes."

"Thank you," the man nodded, exuding earnestness and trust in word, tone and look.

"My pleasure."

* * *

"Lady Grantham, Lady Edith," the man entering behind the Earl stopped short and checked that his hat was still in his hand, was not on his head.

"Sorry to interrupt," Robert said, as he resumed his walk to his desk across the room. "We didn't realize you'd be in here at this time of day."

"Hello, Jarvis; good to see you," Cora smiled over her book, before answering her husband. "The light, and the fire, are good in here on a chilly autumn afternoon. And Lady Edith is doing some… research."

As he rifled through papers on his desk, Robert asked out of sheer politeness, and perhaps a hint of morbid disbelief, "Is that _Burke's Peerage_?"

"I'm looking up families whose names or titles start with 'G', in hopes we can identify our mystery handkerchief," Edith reported matter-of-factly from the sofa where she was surrounded by a huge tome and hand scrawled pages.

Her parents shared a knowing look, as their estate agent smartly gave no reaction at all.

Edith sighed as she read, "But beyond 'Grantham,' we've 'Gage, Gainsborough, Galloway, Galway, Gambier, Gardner, Gerard, Gifford, Gillingham…'" She sat back, overwhelmed. "There must be nearly four dozen here! And that's before I even check the family names under other titles… Surely there's a simpler way to narrow this down."(1)

"Your grandmother is a veritable walking _Burke's_ ," the Countess reminded. "She might be able to help you strike off extinct titles, or know which families have living male members, able to drop their hankies where we can find them."

"That's a wonderful idea, mama," Edith brightened, while Robert shook his head at the problematic encouragement. Knowing him already disapproving, Edith lost nothing by adding, "And, as none of you believes me regardless, there's no harm in asking her for any recollections of a relative, or guest, who might have died in or around Downton. In case it were a ghost or figment I saw…"

Cora blanched at the suggestion, and dropped her widened eyes back into her book.

"Well in the realm of reality," Robert redirected, happily finding the papers he'd been seeking, "Jarvis reports we had only a little flooding in low spots, and some holes in a few roads, but nothing worse than that."

"That's wonderful news," affirmed Cora, happy to support the change of topics. "I hope that's the last of the bad weather for a while. Quite the fireworks in the sky…"

The door beside the nodding man opened, and Carson stepped in with quick nods to all but him, "I am sorry to disturb your Lordship, but there's a… caller whom I think you'll want to see, sir." His addendum was the epitome of gravitas: "In the study."

"Very well," Robert accepted, before walking over to dismiss his current visitor. "Thank you again for the update, Jarvis; here are the figures you'd asked for. And please do keep us updated if you find anything else of note."

"I will, milord. Ladies," the man bowed and stepped out past the butler.

"Now, if you'll both excuse me, it seems _this_ living, handkerchief wielding 'G' is very popular in his own right…" He smiled back at his wife, and to his unamused daughter.

"I'll see myself out," Jarvis had just told the nodding butler, before the latter joined Lord Grantham on the brief steps to the private room.

"That was rather cryptic introduction at a time when mystery and suspense are the last things we should be feeding here," the Earl half-joked.

"I am sorry, sir," Carson said, pausing before the study door. "But for exactly that reason, I hadn't wished to say in front of their Ladyships… It's a police constable who has come calling…"

* * *

"Good afternoon, your Lordship," the local law enforcement representative began, stepping forward immediately to introduce himself, a presumptive initiative earning a scornful glower from Carson. "I am sorry to trouble you, sir. I'm Sergeant Willis."

"Sergeant," Robert acknowledged with an obligatory handshake, and quick glance at the large leather bag on the floor beside the bobby. "What can we do for you?"

"Well, sir, I am hoping you can help with a bit of a mystery… You see, a few hours ago, one of the villagers called our attention to an item just along the north road; and I wondered if you might recognize it."

From his bag, he carefully pulled out the ripped, dirtied, dark-stained, but nonetheless recognizable remnants of a slim man's quality travelling jacket.

"I say, sir," Carson started at the audacity to whip out such a soiled and still-damp rag in the presence, and pristine home, of the Earl.

Ignoring the butler, but still careful not to move it away from the catchbasin satchel, Willis nodded Robert toward it. "As you can tell, sir, it _was_ a well-tailored, high end gentleman's jacket."

"We are not the county's lost and found, constable," the mystery-sated Earl reminded, with a supportive 'harrumph' from his chief servant. "I'm not sure I understand, or care for, where this is going…"

"No sir; of course not, sir. But you see, sir," Willis hurried, exposing the sewn-in label on the lapel's interior, "the tailor is a high end shop in Manchester; not something anyone in the village is likely to patronize. And given its condition, we worried that a gentleman seems to have come to some misfortune along our road."

"Well, I am relieved to report that none of us has been out or injured along the north road or anywhere else. Moreover, we haven't had anyone small enough to fit that apparent size in a long while. And our family's had most of its fashion from London establishments for several generations."

An almost guilty cough turned their attention to one addition. "If I may, sir, Mister Crawley… is, until recently, of Manchester."

"True, Carson; but beyond being a little… thicker… than I believe this fit suggests, he was here all night last night. He was well, and well-dressed, when he arrived; and was so again when our car delivered him and his mother home safely today, _within_ the village."

Carson nodded that fact was also very true.

"So, while I share your concern at what this seems to suggest, you'll find it has thankfully not occurred to anyone of or in this house. I wonder, is it not possible that some animal, a dog perhaps, dragged this off from some home or laundry line as a plaything, and left it snarled when it grew tired? Or the storm scared it home? Or the storm itself, ripped this from its owner or washer?"

"Astute ideas, your Lordship; but we feel that the… nature of the damage is more consistent with that of a… knife or physical fight. And these spots… they _are_ blood, sir."

The confirmation settled harshly over both members of his audience, but did not seem to change the facts they had already shared: that the last owner or occupant of this apparel was not amongst this noble family.

"The storm seems to have brought down some trees in the area," the sergeant persisted, hoping to evoke some shred of helpful information from these, his local finery experts. "But at the spot where this was firmly wet to the ground, there was no sign of cart or car; nor of anyone who might have been wearing, dropped or… otherwise been relieved of it."

"I am sorry, sergeant. I share your concern for this poor chap, and do so appreciate your checking that we all were well, and fully-outfitted."

Carson made the dismissal more tangible, by opening the door and holding it for their departing visitor.

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir," Willis agreed, carefully packing up his evidence. And, while they were being so direct with one another, he asked, "If your Lordship or your staff do come across any information, in your social circles for example, that might be helpful in our making sure that there has been no injury or crime, we would be most appreciative."

Across his bended form, Carson raised his eyebrows as Robert smirked, sighed silently and slouched ever so slightly. "Actually, constable, and you have no idea how much grief this will cause me later… While I truly know nothing about the jacket…, we _did_ find something last night. Something we'd tried to dismiss, even after my daughter claimed to have seen a figure out in the storm."

"A figure, sir?" the sergeant's own head and eyebrows shot up as he realized his trip might not have been in vain after all. "What did she see? What did you find?"

Pinching his nose at the righteous indignation he would have to suffer shortly, Robert nodded Carson to go and fetch their physical discovery. "At the height of the storm last night, as we prepared for dinner, my daughter claims to have seen a wounded man out on our drive. And when we checked, simply to humour her, we found no sign of him or anyone else, save a bloodied handkerchief on our front step, monogrammed with the letter 'G'."

"'G' for?" asked the policeman, as Carson opened the box into which they'd deposited their find.

"God help us…," Robert shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Indeed, a quick online, and therefore incomplete, search yielded these additional "G" peerages of Great Britain and Ireland around the time of the story: Glasgow, Glenconner, Glenlyon, Glossop, Gloucester, Godolphin, Gordon, Gorell, Gormanston, Gort, Goschen, Gosford, Gough, Gower, Grafton, Granard, Granville, Greenock, Grenfell, Greville, Grey, Grey de Ruthyn, Grey de Wilton, Grey of Codnor, Grinstead, Guernsey, Gueterbock and Guilford. However, like Grantham, "Gillingham" was invented for the series.


	5. Ruminations

"Oh, I don't know," O'Brien contradicted, blowing a long plume of smoke. "Other than having to attend to Mrs Crawley—who sent me away almost immediately, and the Dowager—who just wanted to leave as soon as possible, I've rather enjoyed the day. You flustered by being kept up all hours, and then running about forgetting things all day. Lady Edith's got all the family irritated over her visions, only to have the police show up to ask us all to stay sharp for an actual injured gentleman. And Mr Carson near to a heart attack over the all these 'disruptions'… They can't write such entertainment in the magazines! And all this for free…"

Thomas didn't often see his colleague so amused; and normally, he would be right there with her, reveling in the spectacle that could be their employers and their workplace. That was one shared interest that had connected him to the closest thing he'd had to a friend under the Downton roof. That and a mutual respect for the other's capacity for inflicting… unpleasantness on those who crossed them. Better an ally, than an adversary.

But tonight, the glee was in part at his expense, much more than she knew. For beyond his admitted sleepiness as they squeezed in the smoke before upstairs dinner, he had a feverish stranger hidden in his room. And now, not having had the chance to ask that man properly about how he and his injuries came to be at the Abbey, the local police had shown up looking for someone just his size and condition. Thomas' early morning act of mercy had grown increasingly more complicated as the day had gone on.

"Surely you find some of this intriguing? I'd hate to think you were going soft on the family," she nudged him for his unusual lack of shared gloat.

"Better than the cinema," he agreed as prompted, realizing she was expecting some affirmation. "Just don't like that it's _my_ sleep what gets cut short for their whimsy. _And_ , now I get to serve them all dinner as if nothing's amiss with them or me."

"Well don't nod off between courses. I still expect a telling of your guard duty, and their chatter over pheasant tonight."

"I imagine I'll just head up and pass out immediately tonight," he explained both truthfully, and to set expectations for his further scarceness.

"Make notes, then," she insisted, as she tossed her lit end into a puddle, and headed inside.

"Yes, mam," he agreed, himself curious what more he might learn eavesdropping over five courses. And not give away.

* * *

Thomas struggled mightily through dinner service. He was slightly tired from the altered and insufficient sleep the previous night and that morning. He was also preoccupied with thoughts of- with questions _about_ his rescuee. Given Carson's announcement at servants' supper, he couldn't help but wonder about possible connections between his secret guest, and the apparent attack in the area. And as the family talked as directly as decorum allowed, he was desperate to pick up anything else that might help him make sense of the mystery he alone knew, and the larger picture he didn't.

"Tea is better steeped, Thomas; not so, butter sauce," barked Mrs Patmore as he dared to pause in the kitchen.

Darting upstairs again, tray and head full, he resumed pondering on what the "G" on the handkerchief might stand for, much as Lady Edith seemed dedicated to discovering.

One eye on the table and his task master, and one ear on their social prattle, he chewed in his own mind: It was a quick leap to surmise that Ian was likely, but not surely, the man who'd been attacked and dropped the jacket. That he was the man Edith had seen; he'd said he'd come toward the house, drawn by the lights. And he must have dropped the handkerchief at the door.

So, was Ian from Manchester? Or his clothes were. And given their quality, and apparent desirability to bandits, he had some money… But what wealthy 'G' family, indeed, Edith? And what had he been doing on the road near Downton Village at all, so late and in such weather? Was he alone under such conditions? And who had known, and chosen, to attack him, leaving no more trace of their crime than what was on, and dropped from, his person?

Another course served without new revelations from the family. At least not beyond the beginnings of Christmas plans, nearly seven weeks away.

But, even beyond being a little froggy from cold and wet, Ian didn't exactly sound aristocratic. And from what Thomas had glanced of his body under the fragments of fancy clothes, he was no stranger to manual work. It could be a function of stress and hunger, but his eating manners were not noble; and he seemed unfamiliar with local gentry and geography more generally.

Serving dessert, Thomas realized that Lady Mary had been unusually quiet tonight. Perhaps her tongue was held by an unspoken concern for a missing victim or his at-larger attackers. Or more likely, by her younger sister's unspoken, but clear glow of triumph over her disbelieving detractors.

Whoever his fostered fugitive actually was, perhaps the most disturbing questions about Ian were, Why he had approached the house, even come to the door, but not knocked and sought refuge from enemies and elements? Why had he found his way to the darkest area along the house, and so poorly hidden in the shadow of sanctuary? Why had he thought himself dead, and then wished himself so? And why had he been so adamant that he was not worthy of saving, in this life or the next? For such a nice, seemingly gentle, and even… beautiful… man to be so beaten on so many levels… What had he done? Who was he?

" _Thank you_ , Thomas," Robert repeated, more loudly.

Thomas snapped to, stepping away so the Earl could enjoy the space left by the dish he'd just removed; and the family could make their migration to the sitting room. He didn't bother to look at the butler; he could feel the displeasure directed at him from across the room.

"My apologies, your Lordship," the gruff voice chastised him at the same time. "Thomas seems not to have fared so well with the shift in schedule as did young William."

With great effort, Thomas did not shift his face from its honestly pensive-weary presentation. Nothing to be gained by protesting the largely accurate, if unbalanced critique, here, now or otherwise. Best to suffer gladly, so they'd all get on with their evenings. He certainly wanted to get back to his questions, and to the answers that only Ian could provide.


	6. Un(der)covered

He was good, to be sure. And Daisy was as impressionable as she was innocent. But even Thomas was going to quickly exhaust excuses for secret, extra and off-hour meals. And any influence he had with the scullery maid, could be easily blocked by the presence of Mrs Patmore or Mrs Hughes. And Mr Carson or Mr Bates would love the chance to catch him pilfering food and corrupting the young girl. Even his own confidant, O'Brien, would demand an explanation for his sudden interest in room service; she was already overdue for updates, and would only be put off for so long.

Nonetheless, tonight he'd successfully played his 'disrupted schedule' one more time, to sweet-talk his way to a plate of leftover lamb and some assorted vegetables, and a pot of tea. Only half-feigning exhaustion, he headed to bed as quickly as he could, knowing his lack of stamina might well be a topic of gossip at the bottom of that stairwell.

At the top of those stairs, he looked about before knocking and entering his own room, even though he knew he was the first staffer up this night. "Ian?" he whispered, as he lit the lamp, set the tray on the side table and locked the door.

Glancing about, he caught a few blond locks poking out like fringe from under the bed throw draped over the easy chair in the corner.

"Ian?" he whispered a little louder, squatting beside the chair and gently pulling back the duvet.

Curled up inside the borrowed, too large nightgown, Ian slept at an awkward angle in his upholstered hiding place. He'd clearly been trying to remain covered, while not putting pressure on either his swollen eye or injured shoulder. For all his contortions, and the wheeze from his open mouth breathing, he looked remarkably peaceful given the circumstances.

"Ian," Thomas called again, after a moment's observation, "I've brought some dinner."

While there was no reaction to the voice, Ian started awake instantly at Thomas' touch.

"It's alright; you're fine! It's just me, Thomas…"

The panicked pallor faded quickly, giving way to a sheepish smile and then a coughing fit for the sudden scare and exertion.

Thomas looked nervously at the door, comforting Ian as he comforted himself that any overheard coughing would just bolster his 'too tired' excuses. "Easy now. Let's get you to the bed. I've brought some tea and dinner."

Ian sipped at the tea handed him, and nodded thanks as his breathing eased.

"Eat something, before it gets cold."

"Thanks, but not really hungry."

"Ian, you need to eat. To get your strength up."

The secret boarder stabbed a few bites from the plate, clearly more from obligation than interest.

Thomas knew he'd devoured the sandwiches this morning, but having had nothing else since dinner time the night before, if then, Ian should be hungry. The poor appetite was another un-good sign. "Do you need to visit the toilet?" he thought to ask, as it had also been almost a day since he'd had that chance.

"No, thank you," Ian shook his head. He paused, and looked up at Thomas through bruise and curls, confessing with guilty speed, "I went earlier. I'm sorry; but I couldn't wait. I made sure no one was around. It weren't hard to find, and to get back quick."

Thomas' own palpitations eased swiftly, as he realized he couldn't really blame the man. Ian'd said he was careful. And, how could he be angry at that face…? He took a deep breath, refocusing on what was most important, "You're sure you weren't seen?"

Ian nodded and coughed, seemingly relieved to read Thomas' passing irritation. He took the opportunity to offer, "Not that I'm not grateful, Mister Thomas, but why are you bein' so kind? I've no way to pay you for your troubles; and I know takin' me in, hidin' and feedin' me... It's put you out."

"Well, first, I'm just 'Thomas;' no need to call me 'Mister,' no matter how fancy I'm dressed…" Speaking of, the liveried footman stood and took off his work uniform, turning his back as he put on pyjama pants. He spoke as he changed, "And second, it may surprise you to know, that I know what it's like to get beat up, chased. I remember wishin' someone had helped me. So I'm glad I can help someone when he needs it…"

Rejoining Ian on the bed, Thomas modeled eating a piece of potato. From his own experience, and in fact, his own usual approach to doing favors, he realized Ian had also indicated he was expecting Thomas to demand payment. "I want to help, Ian; and you don't owe me anythin'. You won't. But… I could help better, if I knew a little more…"

He saw the brief pause in Ian's eating, accompanied by a soft cough. "I imagine you've good reasons for not sayin' more; we all have our secrets. But, part of my job is to keep the family's secrets. You're lucky you were found by a professional!"

Ian returned his smile, amused if not entirely comforted by the assurance. Clutching the warmth of his tea, he reciprocated a little of the risk he knew Thomas had already taken. "What do you want to know?"

Relaxing a little at this connection, Thomas smiled back, thought a moment, and then asked, "Your accent is northern, but not exactly Yorkshire. Where are you from?"

"Manchester."

 _So that's one piece of evidence confirmed._ And Ian didn't seem eager to expand on the answer unprompted. "And you were travelin' in Yorkshire…?"

"Goin' to Newcastle."

 _That made some sense._ "In the middle of the storm?" he asked, trying to sound more dubious than judgmental.

Ian stopped eating, clearly reaching a limit of hunger or comfort. "It weren't my decision," he admitted more quietly.

"Were you travelin' with your family?" Thomas risked, knowing the conversation had quickly reached a delicate point.

"No," Ian stared at the plate. "No family."

"I can tell this is not easy for you. I'm sorry; I shouldn't push." _Try more direct honesty, with a little reversal._ "If we're to trust one another—after all, I've brought a stranger into my room, into my employer's home—then you should also know a little about me. My name is Thomas Barrow; I'm originally from outside London. Me mum was a seamstress; me dad, a clockmaker. I have a sister, and, if I do so say myself, quite a gift for cricket…," he grinned, and gave Ian an expectant look.

Ian looked genuinely distressed, sniffling and swallowing as he seemed to weigh whether and what to share. Shivering, he finally explained, "I don't have much to tell really…"

"How old are you?" Thomas helped, starting with something relatively innocuous.

"Eighteen," Ian stated. "Roughly."

"Roughly?" Thomas smiled, downplaying the oddity.

"I grew up in a children's home. They didn't know when exactly I was born…"

 _Oh. That was unexpected._ "Well, what date did they celebrate for you? Good enough for a party…!"

"They didn't celebrate," he corrected simply.

 _Oh, indeed._ "What's your family name, then?"

"What does it matter?" was the somewhat defensive answer.

"Well, I would like to know if I'm sharin' my bedroom with the heir of Jack the Ripper, or an on-the-run Austro-Hungarian prince…" Thomas tried lightening the darkening mood.

Ian joined him in an outloud laugh, that quickly devolved into another coughing fit. Thomas removed the abandoned dinner, and sat behind him, firmly patting his back to help loosen and clear his ability to breathe, and thus to keep talking.

"I'm cold, and tired; but none of those," Ian was finally able to share, with less mirth and no confidence.

"You're burnin' up, is what you are," Thomas felt his forehead. "You've caught cold bein' out in it all so long..." Another glance around the room for what might bring comfort, but not end the interrogation. "Will you trust me?" he asked, realizing there was one way to achieve it all.

Focusing on careful breathing, Ian nodded, warily.

Leaving Ian sitting at the foot of the bed, Thomas grabbed the duvet off the chair, and propped the pillows up against the headframe. He explained as he doused the light and got into bed, "We'll have to share again, at least another night." He got comfortable sitting against the pillows, and then reached out to Ian. "Come, lay back against me. We can keep each other warm, and keep you upright to keep those airways clear."

He could tell Ian hesitated, tensing at the suggestion. "Mister Thomas…"

"It's just 'Thomas.' And I don't know what other people have demanded, or taken, from you," he deduced from his guest's backstory and wariness, "but I am not askin' or expectin' anythin' more. I promise. One shout from you, and I'm out of job and on the streets myself," he reminded the power balance was more equal than it might appear. "And, I'll be trustin' you not to elbow me in… sensitive areas either."

Ian didn't move at all for a moment; his raspy breath didn't change in rate or location. Then, slowly and carefully, he inched back, and let Thomas guide him into lying back against him, and then cover them both with the blanket.

Checking "Is that alright? Doesn't hurt?" Thomas wrapped his arms around his bunkmate, and let him settle in.

"Officially, my family name is 'Colson,'" Ian further trusted after a few moments. To head off the likely question, he quickly added, "No lie."

 _But not a 'G' either…_ "See, that wasn't so hard. Nice to meet you, Ian Colson."

Thomas considered asking other questions: About the trip to Newcastle, and the travelling company, and the attack. But he didn't want to interrupt the night's quiet closeness, and the evening's budding bond. He would have to get answers soon enough; and they would have to make some decisions about going forward from the untenable current arrangements of housing, clothing and feeding, probably tomorrow.

"Ian?" he whispered, just to check that he was still comfortable.

No response beyond a regular, raspy inhale and exhale from a point roughly above his heart.

So it was to be another night of less than ideal sleeping circumstances. He'd try to sleep sitting up, and try not to roll, drop or get sick from the other person on top of him. Never mind get caught doing nothing.

But his neighbor was warm, not cold, and was less of a stranger this night; they had built some rapport. And within that relationship, he didn't mind the close quarters. In fact, somewhat surprising even to him, given how rarely he shared his bed, much less with so attractive a man, was that it wasn't… arousing. For all the trouble and risk, he felt no less and no more than simply content to have this handsome person need and trust him.

Feeling sleep coming on quickly, Thomas placed a gentle kiss in the nest of curls at his chest. "Good night, Ian Colson."

There was still much he didn't know about this new arrival; but that seemed not as bad as what he usually didn't have: the simple comfort of a peaceful presence with him.


	7. Shattered

**_Thursday, 7 November 1912_ **

In the wee hours, and for all the rare joy the sharing brought him, Thomas had finally abandoned the bed to Ian, whose temperature had continued to climb. Despite his flush, Ian insisted he was freezing; and the shivering and protests to Thomas' uncovering him had only set off further fits of wet, deep coughing. Not knowing what else to do, the forced nurse had left the duvet on him, fetched a chamber pot and some chill water, pulled up a chair and spent the rest of the early morning cold-clothing his patient.

In his fever, Ian shifted between sleep, apologies to Thomas for causing such trouble, and mumbles about "him" and "them." He didn't seem able or willing to answer questions; and Thomas quickly gave up asking, between spare moments of sleep and reacting to his restlessness.

By the early hour when his alarm went off, Thomas had yet to work out a way to care for Ian better, or to skip work for the day without inviting obliged supervisors to check in on him/them, or to get help without getting them both into significant trouble. And so, he resolved himself to again balance his professional obligations with this personal concern; and set about to make his care as comfortable as possible for his workday.

"Ian, let's move you to the chair over here, where you can stay upright; that seems to help your coughin'. That's good," he coached the weak, sweaty man across the short distance. "I'm goin' to leave this pan beside you, should you feel ill, and this glass of water where you can reach it. We'll cover you up, so you can stay warm..." _And not be seen so easily._

The guest now relocated to a less-obvious-from-the-door spot, Thomas remade the bed to specs and tidied the room before completing his own morning preparation routine. Should anyone look in now, they'd see a properly neat room, save the duvet "airing" on the chair in the corner.

"I'm goin' now, Ian," he explained as he cracked the window above the drowser, hoping the day's cool might offset the nesting fever. "Don't answer the door or go out for anythin'; and I'll pop in to check on you as often as I can."

As he passed by to leave, Ian reached out and snagged his hand, repeating his cogent-moment mantra, "Thank you. Thomas. Angel." From his standing perspective, the swollen eye looked like a macabre wink, above a more-grimace-than-smile.

A swash of warmth passed through Thomas' cold anxiety; and he passed his hand over the wet brow one more time. "My pleasure, really. Get some rest."

* * *

"I just think it's odd that some wealthy man's been set upon, and yet no one has reported any _crimes_ to the police, that's all," Gwen was saying around the servants' hall table, as Thomas arrived.

"Well, His Lordship and Mr Carson had all us men check 'round the house again first thing after the police was here; didn't they, Thomas?" William sought agreement from his fellow footman. "And we didn't find nothing more; nor did the estate workers neither."

"Unless he was beaten _and_ killed," Thomas said, hastily lighting up a smoke, and adjusting his vest. "And the body hidden well. Then there'd be no one to report the deed, and nothing to find..."

"That's a horrible thing to say: someone dying!" Gwen protested.

"But no surprise, given its source," reminded Bates, with a quick smile to Anna, as she passed by shaking her head at his stirring the pot.

"But, we know that _someone_ came to the house and the door, and he weren't dead then," William tried to console the women folk.

"Storm droppings, hallucinations and odd circumstances, that's all it is," Thomas dismissed with a particular derision. "But that's enough to give us all extra work, and keep us up all hours."

"That's clear as day on you," O'Brien chimed in finally and helpfully, looking up from her needle and thread. "You don't look well at all, Thomas. Everything alright?"

The whole room turned to look, assessing his bloodshot eyes and the bags under them.

"Never felt better," he lied in character, throwing in a cough to bolster his appearance, and his alibi.

"He coughed all night long," William shared with his colleagues after Thomas marched out. "He actually sounds much better now…"

* * *

"Edith, you do realize that one is not required to _prove_ one's surname in order to have a handkerchief monogrammed?" For effect, her grandmother punctuated the question-critique with both a head tilt and a pleasant smile.

"Well, yes of course, grandmamma," she acknowledged, having hoped for more than more mockery from the family matriarch. "But I think it safe to presume that no one fabricated a false initial before dropping it on our doorstep." She dropped her shoulders ever so slightly, all but defeated by the lack of progress for her morning's investigations, "If you can't recall hearing of any other 'G'-named gentlemen traveling through the area of late, then I've no more leads than were I to ask about possible ghosts at Downton."

Taking advantage of Edith's downtrodden eyes to roll her own, the Dowager Countess reminded, "While I do pride myself on remaining 'in the know,' if not relevant, it is _Downton_ that is the hub of society in the area. No one is required, or bothers, to notify me of their comings and goings these days; not the family, much less the wider nobility."

Seeing the conversation turning toward the Dowager Countess' displeasure at not being the center of the local world, Edith summarized, "None of this would be necessary, if 'G' would just let someone know what had happened to generate all the worrisome evidence. I just don't understand why someone hasn't come forward to report the attack or accident? Wouldn't they want assistance, a record of their losses, police help toward justice, or simply to warn others of the risk?"

"There are many reasons why one would not seek to make one's pain, pilfer-able wealth or 'eccentricities' the public's business," the elder continued the youth's education of the obvious.

"Are you suggesting this 'G' was involved in something… improper?" Edith blanched.

"I wouldn't think to suggest _anything_. In fact—and I don't mean to dissuade you from taking up interests, my dear; goodness, no... But I cannot recommend thinking deeply in general, as it rarely produces the desired calm or closure of answers or simplicity. Why not occupy yourself with something more… productive? Knitting, perhaps?"

The tea and their talk finished, and wishing the same for the visit, the again smiling Violet rang her bell. "So nice of you to have stopped by…"

* * *

On the ride home, despite her grandmother's not entirely unexpected disdain, Edith resolved herself to write to the geographically nearest "G" families, to inquire casually after any recent visits to the area, and losses of any personalized accessories. Barring that, she might check the society pages of recent papers, or with family friends in surrounding big cities, to ask who might have been visiting or traveling recently.

In the meanwhile, and more immediately, she'd put away the generous parting gift of the Dower house's spare yarn and needles, and follow advice that her grandmother had also given her, before growing tired of her questions and company. She would check the numerous portraits and occasional photographs at Downtown, for anyone she might recognize as her 'wounded man.' While a spirit seemed less likely given the physical evidence, however coincidental, it was a possibility she couldn't ignore. And it was certainly a line of inquiry the family, and the police, would not be pursuing.

"Welcome back, your Ladyship," the always ready butler greeted her, as a rather weary-looking footman helped her from the car. "I trust the Dowager Countess has recovered from her unplanned overnight with us?"

"Rest assured that she is as crisp and dry as ever, Carson," Edith smiled back knowingly.

He nodded, letting her know that "Their Ladyships have just gone up to change for luncheon. We'll let Mrs Patmore and her Ladyship know that you have returned in time to join them."

Handing Thomas her coat and borrowed sewing bag as Carson closed the door behind them, she nodded and requested, "Carson, could you also let Mrs Hughes know that I'd like to walk through _all_ the bedrooms this afternoon, to check the portraiture? There's no need to open them fully; I'll just step in with a candle and have a quick look."

"Very well, milady," he nodded to Thomas to handle the notifications.

"Ah, Edith, you've made it back," interrupted the Earl, as he left his study and headed across the grand hall toward the library. "Any headway with your 'research'?" he doubted.

"Grandmama actually gave me _several_ good suggestions," Edith reframed cheerfully, as she headed toward the grand staircase.

Sharing a surprised look with Carson, Robert waved him to follow, "If you have a moment, Carson, I'd appreciate a word before the flurry of luncheon…"

As they headed off, Edith had paused on the stairs, methodically looking at each portrait in the house's central atrium, before pausing at each along the route to her own bedroom. None looked anything like the thin, light-headed man in her quick glimpse two nights earlier.

With time enough to change before heading down again, she continued past her room at the top of the stairs, and continued her inspection of the gallery artwork. Still nothing, as not every piece had a person—landscapes and still lifes, and not every person was real, related or a man. Still, she had to check that she hadn't imagined into existence, the image of a character she'd been seeing, if not noticing, since childhood.

Completing her round of the entire first floor without success, she took hope that there were another three dozen unoccupied bedrooms to check, plus the more public showpieces on the ground floor. Surely, there was something in one of those…

Turning to pass the top of the main stairs again, a movement ahead caught her attention. Glancing up, she expected to see her younger sister, or perhaps a maid moving between rooms. Instead, and in an instant, she took in the sight standing in a patch of sunlight at the far end of the corridor: a tall, pale, thin figure in a long white gown blocked her path. Golden curls topped a ruddy-cheeked face that would have been beautiful were it not for an odd disfigurement across one eye.

Paused as she was at the juncture of the largest spaces in the building, the entire house heard her scream as the ghostly vision reached out to her, asking, "Angel?"


	8. Broken

"Oh my god," Cora exclaimed, clutching at her dressing gown, as she and O'Brien came to the head of the staircase, only to find Robert and Carson huddled over the prone Edith on the landing below.

"Mama? What's happened?" asked Mary, tying up her own gown as she came to investigate.

"Mary? Mama?" Sybil called as she came up the gallery from the other direction.

"Robert?"

"She seems to have taken a tumble down the top flight. She's dazed, but doesn't appear to be injured, thank goodness," he tried to assure everyone, himself included.

"O'Brien," the Countess took charge, "fetch the footmen and Mrs Hughes. And have someone send for Doctor Clarkson."

Her lady's maid nodded and headed to the service staircase, where she guessed the commotion may have already attracted some downstairs attention.

"Carson and I can get her to her room," the worried father didn't quite ask, as he and his trusted butler coaxed the confused young woman to her feet. "That's it, Edith… Just have someone bring the medicine box."

Edith turned to her father, as he tried to support her on one side. "He was there... plain as day."

"That's fine," he dismissed, coordinating with the older man, who was working hard not to grab or touch the lady too freely. "Carson, just take her; decorum be damned."

"Did none of you see him?" Edith asked almost drunkenly, as they carried her up the stairs, almost upright.

Never approaching a lady from below, William bounded out of the service door on the gallery, as the housekeeper hurried up from the main floor, explaining, "We've sent a hall boy running ahead to the village, and another to dispatch the car."

"He was right there," Edith pointed to where William stood as they approached him.

Looking guilty and confused, the younger footman glanced behind, unsure of what he'd done, or of whom she was speaking.

"I know you don't believe me; but he was _there_ , calling to me! Beckoning, really!"

"Who, Edith?" Cora followed behind, at the head of the growing retinue. "Whom has she seen?"

"The man from the storm," the moment's focus shouted, wrestling free and throwing open the service stair doors, as if to go looking. "Where has he gone? He was just here."

"Not this again," Robert cursed as he waved over Carson and William. Firmly taking his daughter by the arm, he all but dragged her the rest of the way into her room.

"Only he's a beautiful, damaged angel now. Or inviting me to be one. I couldn't tell, I was so shocked to find him…," she trailed.

Waving her other daughters back to their rooms, and letting a bewildered William slip past her into the hallway, the lady of the house forced a smile on her face and paused before closing the bedroom door behind her, "William, please show the Doctor up here as soon as he arrives. Mrs Hughes, will you ask O'Brien to bring me something simple to slip into; and let Mrs Patmore know that luncheon may be a little delayed…"

* * *

O'Brien hesitated only for a moment before turning down the male servants' hallway. Normally crossing that line was off-limits in either direction. But the family and senior staff were well busy on floors below, even if the shouting in the stairwell had moved on. And hadn't her Ladyship sent her to find 'the footmen,' plural?

So, she knocked softly and quickly threw open the door to Thomas' bedroom. Beside its unexpected chill, and the duvet crumpled over the sitting chair under the window, it appeared quite neat and normal. But it was empty. No footman. He hadn't hidden here.

She seethed in place for a moment, deprived of catching him napping, or worse, when he ought to be working; when _she_ was working. Begrudging his disappearance, and respecting him for its success at the same time, she heard the faint splash of liquid down the hall.

Glancing again that she wasn't about to be caught down the men's side, she moved quietly back to the bathroom; and placed her ear nearly against the door. She could just make out a low groaning and the odd, long shushing, between louder, longer cascades of poured water.

"Thomas?" she called, as she tried the door. "Are you in there? Are you alright?" The door was locked.

The pouring sound stopped as if startled, and then continued, trailing off.

She tried the door again.

"Obviously there's someone in here," Thomas' strained voice said. "What do you want?"

"Lady Edith's had a fall on the stairs… His Lordship's asked me to find you."

Another brief pour of water.

"Well, please tell Mister Carson to inform his Lordship that I _am_ sorry for the inconvenience; but I have been taken ill myself. You're hearing me trying to clean off."

She tried the door once more, trying to being careful about it; but it squeaked nonetheless.

Another brief flow of water. Then silence. And then the door opened just enough for a shirtless, dripping wet and ruddy footman to stick his head through. "Misses O'Brien," he hissed, "Shall I get sick on your person as well, to prove to you and Their Downton Majesties that I am _not_ in a condition to provide service to you, him, Lady Edith or anyone beyond meself?" He wiped the back of his hand across his chin.

"I didn't mean…," she tried to explain.

"Of course not," he softened. "But would you be a dear, and grab me a towel or two from my nightstand? Excuse me…," he suddenly hiccupped and closed the door quickly, before the gurgle of falling liquid again echoed in the room.

Not appreciating the threat or the request, she nonetheless couldn't argue that he'd not looked well for a while, certainly looked ill now, and so shouldn't present himself to the family in his current state whatever the details or need. And, he had just instructed her to go through—to go _into_ his room…

"I'll be right back," she assured a little louder, through this door, before heading to back to his.

Once inside, she noted the short stack of towels by the bowl and pitcher at his nightstand; but she took her time walking around the room to it. Without touching anything, she gave everything a more careful inspection than her previous surprise entrance. The laundry hamper had a pair of long underwear atop the pile, so she moved on quickly. Beyond the plush chair and fallen duvet, a washcloth and chamber pot sat in the corner; she didn't check whether the latter was full.

Almost disappointed there wasn't something more incriminating, O'Brien realized that Thomas seemed to have kept his room rather tidy, while also preparing for, or coping with, any unexpected… physical urgencies. _It had been too long for a hangover to last; so it wasn't that he'd sampled too many spirits on his graveyard shift two nights previous. He must really be ill, finally caught in a cycle of retching and washing alone at midday._ Not surprised that the simple explanation had seemed so implausible given their history of schemes, she peeked quickly into the wardrobe and under the bed, just to make sure she hadn't missed evidence of something more interesting.

Finding none, she sighed at the dull normalcy of the moment, picked up two towels, and headed back on her magnanimous errand of mercy.

* * *

When the expected knock and voice returned, Thomas bent over the side of the basin, and shifted the water he was pouring on Ian over his own head instead. Quietly shushing the groggy bather with a finger to the lips, he hurried to the door, rubbing his face to dry and redden it as he stepped.

He opened the door just enough to half-smile a thanks and reach for the towels O'Brien held up to him.

"Are you sure you don't need some help yourself?" she asked, with some genuine concern for her smoke and scandal companion. Not that _she_ specifically want to provide that assistance; but he did look dreadful.

"I just need to get cleaned up, cooled off and then to bed," he thought aloud. "Perhaps William could bring me a dinner tray when there's a spare moment tonight?"

"Are you sure you want to be eating?" she wondered. _If you're not keeping it down now…_

"Gotta keep me strength up; so I can save the Earl's crazy daughter some other time…," he tried to smile.

"You do that," O'Brien encouraged, in as genuinely concerned a tone as she seemed capable of showing.

"Thank you again," Thomas shared back. "Don't let them work _you_ sick too…"

As she nodded and headed away, he closed the door quickly, but gently. Exhaling silently, he turned back to the basin, knelt beside it, and scooped another cup of water over the lethargic Ian. Seeing his 'ghost' had not gone flush again, he gently placed his hand on the damp forehead, then neck, and then chest –all feeling cooler to the touch than when he'd first hauled Ian up here.

"Thomas?" Ian opened his good eye, and smiled weakly on finding the familiar face.

"Quiet now, don't strain yourself. And let's not call attention to there bein' two of us in here."

Ian nodded, the rest of him remaining completely still in the cold water bath. "I- What…?"

Thomas explained in a whisper, as he poured another cooling draught around Ian's shoulders. "It seems you got a little delirious in your fever, came downstairs lookin' for me, I suppose, and stepped through the first door you came to. Thankfully, I was just comin' up the service stairs to deliver Lady Edith's bag, when I opened the door to find you standin' there on the gallery callin' out to her… She shrieked. I shrieked. And then I threw you over my shoulder and ran up here before anyone else could catch sight of you."

He ran a handful of water through Ian's hair, letting his concern and relief into his voice. "I've never known anyone so hot as you were. It scared me, honestly… And so I just dumped you here and hoped the standin' buckets might help break the fever…"

"Sorry to worry ya," Ian blinked, or winked. It was hard to tell with the swollen bruise and dripping hair. Either way, it was sincere, and charming.

"Just don't do it again," Thomas smiled back, happy for the small sign of improving health. "Are you feelin' better?"

The affirmative nod was clear.

"Well let's give it another few minutes soakin'; and then we'll sneak you back to my room for some rest until they bring me dinner. I don't have any more spare sleepware, so we'll have to cinch you into somethin' else."

_Then we'll have to figure out a more permanent fix for clothing, housing and everything else. We both can't 'be sick' indefinitely; and who knows what complications Edith's ongoing visions will have on house affairs._

_And to help shape all those solutions, we'll need some more fundamental answers about who our common vision is..._


	9. New Directions

Only once they passed out the front door toward the car did the Earl again address the village physician. "Doctor, we do so appreciate your coming up on such short notice, and for letting us know that Lady Edith did not injure herself, but…," he stopped them and stepped in closer. "And I dare not bring this up in front of her Ladyship, but is there nothing you can suggest about this obsession with this person she thinks she's seeing? She could have broken a limb, or her neck today…" His concern and exasperation were clear in an uncommonly obvious agitation for the normally cool county noble.

"My lord," Clarkson began, "I'm always happy to be of help, and am glad I could report nothing more than the bruises which will pass. But I am a doctor of the body, not of the mind…"

Grantham looked stunned, and hissed quietly, "We will not speak of my daughter as a… a lunatic." The last thing the family needed, especially with succession questions afloat, was talk about the sanity of any member.

"I'm sorry, milord," the doctor backpedaled uncomfortably, "I didn't mean to suggest any such thing. My point was that I _can_ confirm she is physically well; but am not qualified to advise on her… fascination with this figure she saw."

The father's face suggested that clarification did little to allay his concerns.

"I wonder, sir, whether you and her mother, knowing her better than anyone, might have an insight on whether such… singular focus might be something in her nature, her personality?"

The Earl's look only darkened, as this seemed to be heading back into the 'character flaw' territory.

The doctor continued to unpack his intended meaning. "And, if she is so passionately... inquisitive, as you've described her being on this subject, perhaps directing that curiosity, rather than trying to block it, might help her work through it in less... extreme ways?"

"You're suggesting I indulge this nonsense?"

"Your Lordship, I am not a father, and obviously not Lady Edith's. However, if I may be so bold, she _is_ an intelligent, but impressionable young woman, who is neither the presumptive Countess, nor the youngest in the family. Given recent… circumstances, her role here and future is even less clear; and with some evidence now to support her first vision, this mystery might allow her to feel useful, important."

"You're suggesting she's playing for attention? She's not a child…"

"Respectfully, sir, she _is_ your child," Clarkson risked. "And while your acknowledging, even encouraging her in this outlet might give her energy to pursue it, that permission could also make it less appealing—no longer forbidden…"

"And make it less disappointing when it inevitably comes to nothing," Robert nodded, beginning to understand his point about sibling dynamics as the girls came of age.

"My lord, unless you _actually_ have an injured angel in your home, and with some supervision of her inquiries, this is all likely to pass like the storm that initiated it."

The Earl seemed to mull over the complicated risks involved in allowing or supporting behaviour that had actually injured his middle daughter today, and could damage the family's larger reputation at such a critical time. There _were_ apparently violent actors afoot in the area; and their inheritance crisis and the possible Mancunian answer had not been resolved. He also could understand how her stronger-willed, and sweeter-faced, sisters left little room for her milder presence, both in the house and in the larger society circles. Was this just Edith's opportunity to assert herself, or find herself, as the expectations and uncertainties circled them all?

Mid-thought, Robert realized the doctor was awkwardly waiting on his next move, and so smiled and offered his hand. "You've given me a great deal to consider, doctor. And I think you may underestimate your insights on issues beyond limbs and lightheadedness…"

Sighing in relief that he hadn't overstepped his place to analyze and advise on the family, Clarkson simply accepted the handshake, nodded and climbed quickly into the waiting car.

* * *

Cora was just coming out of Edith's bedroom as Robert topped the stairs to check on them all. Mrs Hughes nodded and disappeared into the service stair, as the Countess waved her husband to wait where he was.

Reaching him, she assured, "She's resting now. Mrs Hughes, O'Brien and I will check on her through the afternoon. I'd sent the girls down to luncheon already; they'll be plates held for us."

"That's good to hear, as it all could have been much worse," he agreed and reassured, taking her hands.

"What are we going to do, Robert? Edith remains convinced she's seen an 'angel' in the house; and she's adamant that it's someone involved with that ghastly jacket affair the police visited about."

"Doctor Clarkson has just suggested that we allow her to pursue her interest in this affair, to deny her any possible satisfaction at defying us by doing so, and expecting it will quickly come to nothing."

"Is that safe or wise?" Cora seemed as shocked at the suggestion as he'd originally been. "We already have one footman ill for indulging her; and she did just get so worked up over this, that she fainted down the stairs. Never mind brigands on the road, or word getting out that a daughter of this house is involved in police investigations…"

"I didn't say it was desirable," he admitted, "but some oversight of her interest might keep it from getting out of hand, and help her wrap it up all the more quickly."

Knowing him well, his wife looked at him with an uncomfortable feeling he'd just shared his decision, rather than one option. "And whom exactly did you have in mind to be this hapless and unhelpful chaperone?"

* * *

Blessedly, Ian had the sleepy self-control to remain silent when Thomas whispered him to stay still, slid out from underneath him, threw the duvet back over him, and answered the door that evening.

"You look a mess," William started, as the hall light poured onto the disheveled hair, sleepy eyes and wrinkled undershirt of his fellow footman.

"Perhaps you hadn't heard; I am _ill_ ," Thomas yawned, and wiped his face.

"I know full well," the lone working footman corrected. "Thankfully, it's just the family for dinner tonight. Mrs Hughes sent me up with this before I get to be first _and_ second footman in the dining room."

"You'll do fine; just don't rush it."

William seemed both frightened and excited at the responsibility, before remembering what food delivery to which he was currently tasked. "Shall I bring it in?"

"No! No," Thomas smiled, "We don't want you getting sick, especially on your night to shine." He took the tray, using his foot to keep the door from opening any further. "Don't start anything until Mister Carson tells you to; and never stop moving in Mrs Patmore's presence."

"That's good advice," William chuckled at the extremes.

"Just don't do _too_ well," Thomas admonished lightly. "I will be wanting my job back, soon as I'm up and about again…"

"No promises," his heir suggested. "Do feel better, though."

Exchanging nods, Thomas closed and locked the door, standing in place a moment to be sure William had lumbered off, and to let his eyes re-adjust to the dark room. He set the tray down, lit the lamp, and turned to determine the best way to arrange a shared dinner, given how they'd settled in after nearly an hour at the bath that midday.

While Ian's fever had broken, his cough still lingered; and so, Thomas had put him back in the easy chair, to stay upright and breathing well. But they'd moved it to the bedside, so Thomas could react quickly if needed. Placing drinking water and the chamber pot at the ready as well, the host had tucked his guest in for the afternoon, before passing out on his own blanket-less bed, exhausted from more than two days of little rest and lots of activity.

He'd been woken several times by Ian's coughing, but no spell had required him to intervene. And then, at some point as the sun was setting, Ian had thrown the blanket over him, and crawled in beside him, apparently trying to return the favor of keeping warm.

For all it had taken to get to the point of that payback, Thomas hadn't slept so well in a long, long time. While knowing that they needed to eat, he also hoped Ian had enjoyed such a comfortable and comforting rest.

"Ian," he called softly, pulling back the edge of the covers. "Supper?"

Yawning, stretching and rubbing his good eye, Ian slowly sat up, re-covering the shoulder exposed by the oversized short johns.

"How are you feelin'?" Thomas asked, fetching a glass of water to add to the tray, which he settled between them on the bed.

"Better, thank you," Ian cleared his throat a little, nodding as his host poured and offered him the cup of steaming tea.

"More lamb tonight, I'm afraid," Thomas explained as he divided the plate's contents in half, handing Ian the fork as he cut with knife and spoon. "Mrs Patmore—the cook—must have a surplus this week…"

"It's very good," Ian smiled through a mouthful, not being slowed at all by the lack of a proper place setting.

"How did you sleep?"

"Well," he nodded, before looking up a little nervously. "You had curled up tight; I thought you might be cold, so…"

"I don't mind," Thomas assured. "These rooms do get cold. And we know we both fit nicely."

They both blushed a little at having proven that fact so decisively, and turned their attention back to eating.

"Ian, not that the hide-and-seek of the past two days haven't been quite the adventure," Thomas smiled a few moments later, before turning serious, "But we can't keep this up much longer. I can't hide you in my room forever; and whatever may have happened recently, I expect you have a life to get back to…"

His dinner companion nodded and swallowed, not excited for the conversation he knew had to happen, but whose outcome he had hoped could be put off a long while, if not forever. "I know… And I know I've been a horrible burden. And you've done so much…"

"It's _not_ been horrible," Thomas corrected him adamantly, with a too glad smile that showed he meant quite the opposite. "Not at all…"

Ian glanced at him, dubious, wondering how that could be possibly true. Seeing Thomas felt he'd confessed something, rather than simply been polite, the guest made his own confession. "You're more than kind, again… And I know this has to change, I do; but… honestly, I have nothin' to go back to."

Thomas swallowed, not sure how much of an exaggeration that was, or just a desire not to risk interrupting their awkward arrangement.

Either way, Ian stressed his interest in remaining, suggesting hopefully, "I know I don't look it now, and I'll admit that I've got no trade; but, I'm a hard worker. Once I'm healed up soon, perhaps there's some place here in the palace—in the _house_ —for me?"

"I'm afraid Lady Edith could recognize you at any moment, if she didn't already this mornin'," he was reminded of his repeated dramatic appearances. Even out on the estate, there would be a real risk, as distinctive and eye-catching as this newcomer was. And it's not like Downton was hiring.

"And I don't think there's a way to keep you hidden here, even while you heal. And it's not that I don't want to," Thomas was quick to assure. "I just don't see how I could sneak the food without the other staff, or his Lordship, finding out. Never mind you gettin' bored to death up here…"

Ian's resigned nod indicated he knew where this was going; he should have expected it sooner, in fact. "I understand… Can I stay just this one last night, and wait 'til mornin' to go? If you'll point me in a good direction, I'll slip out at dawn."

"Hey," Thomas realized, reaching over to tip up the scratched chin. "I am _not_ throwin' you out into the cold; I wouldn't. Ever." He let that promise sink in a moment. Thumbing the nose gently, he explained, "I just need to get you some clothes, and somewhere safe to stay while we work on somethin' longer term. And luckily, I'm good with plans; I'll get you taken care of."


	10. Forward

With the promise given not to throw him out, and instead to work out some way to help him, Thomas could see Ian's posture relax, as the fear of exile slipped out of his whole person. Encouraging the physical, as well as the mental improvement, he cut and pushed another piece of mutton toward the healing body. "But, while I think on that, I am curious how you got from an orphanage in Manchester, to posh clothes on the night road to Newcastle, to a bloody pulp at Downton's back door…"

The tension seemed to return to the refugee, at least as much as had fled moments before.

"I'm not lookin' to judge," Thomas clarified. "Lord knows I've got little right to point fingers at anyone for where they're from, or what they've done. But if I'm gonna help, I need to know the whole story… Will you trust me, just a little more? Please?"

Ian finished chewing his bite, fixing Thomas with what must be his taking-stock gaze, nodded, and began reluctantly but dutifully. "I told you I grew up in an orphanage outside Manchester?"

Thomas nodded, passing him back the cup of tea he'd insisted on sharing, as a bolster for the telling. "They didn't know your birthday; but had your family name."

"They _gave_ me a name, off letter-order lists," Ian corrected. "The boy that came to them before me was called 'Howard Bridges'; the next boy arrivin' after me got 'Jacob Dunny'. They had lists for girls as well. They're just names."

_So 'C' may not be his actual initial…_

"Whatever our names or families or future might've been… Long as I can remember, from time to time, some of us'd be gathered up, cleaned off and made to greet wealthy visitors. We was told they paid for our food and care, so to make nice with them. And it were easy enough to smile, let them pinch the cheeks, and savor a treat they might've brought."

"But you got out?"

"One of the wealthy men, he visited a few weeks ago, and offered me the chance to come away and serve him as an… apprentice of sorts. The heads of the home, they told me it was a great opportunity, that I couldn't refuse—for myself, or for the others: 'Happy patrons are generous ones,' they always said. And, I knew I were gettin' to the age where they'd soon put me out on me own, with no trade, no prospects; and I'd only ever known the home."

"So you agreed?" Thomas noted that Ian had grown still, stopped eating and drawn his arms back against him, as if folding up against the unfolding tale.

"One mornin' I woke in a room with forty other boys that had been me whole life. And by that night, I'd ridden in me first car, and been cleaned and dressed for a dinner so posh it gave me a stomach ache, and been assigned a bed—a _room_ of my own! Just for me, and nobody else! It was hard to believe how different everythin' was: Multiple plates to eat at every meal. So many different pieces of clothin' it hurt to wear them all. And at first, it was so quiet at night, I couldn't sleep… I didn't sleep…" He seemed to be overwhelmed at the mere memory of the change in sleeping arrangement and status.

Thomas pushed another bite to him, which he obligingly forked and continued while chewing, "A few days ago now, I guess, the gentleman announced we were goin' to Newcastle, for his business. But we didn't take the train; his man drove us in the car. I think we were late in leavin', or slowed by the weather, as he insisted we push on despite the time and storm."

Ian shivered, but continued, "We came to a tree across the road; and when the driver couldn't move it alone, I hopped out to help. Three men came out of the darkness, threatened us and demanded all the valuables. I tried to protest, and got this for it," he pointed toward his eye.

"And as two of 'em worked on unloadin' the luggage from the rear, and the third held me beside it," he trailed off as his face grew dark for the remembering, "the 'gentleman' signaled his man, and… And they drove off."

"They _left_ you?" Thomas was stunned, and instantly furious, for the apparent sacrificial lamb.

"As the only prize for some cold, wet and now empty-handed thieves, who made a point to let me know how very unhappy they were…" What energy he'd woken with had drained away; and he had crossed his good arm across its cradled mate.

"And your arm?

"I landed hard on me shoulder, or maybe from one of the kicks. It's all a bit of a blur…"

Thomas had stopped eating, and nearly breathing, entirely. "But you got away."

"While one held me up for the others, I managed to slip out of me jacket, and run."

_The jacket the police had found…_

"I just set off in the dark. I had no idea where I was, or where I was goin'. And they chased me a good while, cursin' and threatenin'. But the storm was growin' so bad, it was hard to tell afore long. Eventually, I saw the lights and ran here." He looked up at the savior that hope had brought him.

"You came to our windows; the Earl's daughter saw you out on the drive." Thomas picked up the tale.

"In case I were still followed, I only needed them to see that I'd reached the palace—the _house_. To think I'd been seen, or was goin' in. I hoped they'd give up if I'd made it to other people."

"Why didn't you knock, or let us know you were out there, and needed help? Why sneak around back and hide?"

"Before that week with him, I'd only been outta the home a handful of times in my life, and then only in Manchester. I had no idea what the royals—or whoever was in the house—would think of me. Or would do to me." He seemed apologetic, as if disappointing Thomas in his survival thinking.

For his part, Thomas noted that Ian had grown quiet, angry, even sad in the telling; but there were none of the tears or self-crimination that he'd arrived with. Just two nights before, in the moment, he'd wanted to die, felt he deserved it—and that didn't come from being a robbery victim alone, much less from surviving it. There was something more to the story; another level or incident… But maybe now wasn't the time to push for it.

Thomas shifted the all-but-finished dinner tray to the chair, and scooted forward toward the withdrawn storyteller. "Ian, I don't know what to say. Except that you haven't deserved any of the bad that's come to you." He placed his open hand on the bed between them. "But I'm glad, at the end of all that, you saw our lights, and ran here to be found."

Ian slowly accepted the offered grasp, and all it symbolized. He grinned and looked up through bed-flattened curls, "I think you weren't quite honest when you said you wasn't an angel. Perhaps I should just call you that."

Shaking their clasped hands as he chuckled at that suggestion, Thomas countered that, "If you call me that, I'm going to have to call you 'Wink,' as that's what you seem to be doing every time I look at you. Makes we wonder whether I didn't find myself a mischievous imp on the doorstep…"

"Hardly," Ian laughed openly, before a quick melancholy overtook him again. "But, I'm no angel either.' He again seemed uncomfortable under Thomas' contented gaze, at whether his new patron might see beyond the imperfect surface, to something worse.

Thomas stood, and went to the cloak box to seek an outfit with which they might try to introduce some normalcy at least in fashion. "Well then we're a good match in our imperfection, you and me. And the non-angels I'm more concerned about are the men who attacked you, and the pompous bastard who left you to them…"

"No, please." Ian almost stumbled out of the bed, reacting as if Thomas were setting out on a manhunt that instant. "I don't want to return—not to him, or the home, or to any of it. And seeking them will only lead back." There was an urgency, almost a fear in Ian's reaction, before he took Thomas' arm and led him to the bed with a forced nonchalance. "I know I can't stay here, but there's nothin' good to come from me lookin' to the past. I've lost nothin' I want, or wants me."

Standing there together at the bed, Thomas could appreciate the desire to close the door on one's past completely, and to focus forward. Hadn't he recently found a not quite angel, who'd added some adventure, and perhaps affection, to his dreary life of service? Would he give that up so easily, to go back to the simpler time before Guys Fawkes Night? No; because now he basked in the imperfect face smiling back at his own odd grin, glad for its exclusive presence—for now being known only to him, perhaps in the whole world.

"Whatever happened back there and then, you're wanted here and now, Wink," he promised the brown eye-and-a-half peering up at him. With a quick brush through the tousled tow, the ugly bruise and scattered scabs interrupted his relish and gratitude. And for all the good reasons his heart was full, he knew there was still spare space enough for a vow to repay each slight upon his angel.

Replacing the grim conviction that had leaked onto his face, Thomas renewed his smile, and led Ian back toward the wardrobe. "Before we turn in, let's see what I have that might fit you, until we can get to a proper tailor…"

* * *

**_Friday, 8 November 2012_ **

"Thank you, Molesley," Isobel smiled genuinely, as the butler stepped back into the hall. "Lord Grantham, what a pleasant surprise. If we'd known you were coming, we would have had tea waiting for you. Mrs Bird has put the kettle on…"

Robert had stood as the sitting room door opened, and remained so until she waved to take his seat as she did. He noted that, unnecessarily thanking the staff aside, she seemed to be well versed in the etiquette of hosting. A good sign overall, especially if Matthew had learned or was as fast a learner. But, it might also make the needed conversation a little awkward. He said, "I'm sorry to bother you unannounced. I was in the village, and thought I'd pop in. To see how you were settling in to the house and community."

"Very kind of you, Lor—"

"Cousin Isobel, as family, I hope we don't need to stand on such formality in present company. Please do call me Robert, or Cousin Robert, as you prefer."

She smiled graciously, relieved to have an additional barrier between the ancestral branches removed. "Cousin Robert… It's very kind of you to check in on me. You're welcome any time, of course." She also knew what parts of the pleasantry exchange were still required.

They continued as the butler entered and set a tray between them; and she almost invisibly suppressed the urge to get up and prepare her own and her guest's cup. Nodding to the happily served offering, she continued, "I am beginning to know my way around the area, to recognize some of the locals, and even to be brought into the confidences of some persons of significance."

"Oh?" he genuinely wondered what scuttlebutt she had come across already. "Dare I ask what sordid tales the postmistress has imparted?"

"Oh, not her," Isobel affirmed, making note to befriend that well-placed source. "But for example, just today, I've learnt from Dr Clarkson that there was apparently some type of assault on the road nearby within the past few days."

"He discussed that you?" Robert asked, not entirely surprised given the physician's recent penchant for speaking his mind.

"Yes, after I stopped in at his practice, to find a very serious police constable showing him a damaged jacket and a weathered, single shoe. I was understandably curious, and am now a little concerned, I must say. But it was I who pressed them to share, given the safety implications for a newly arrived widow, among others," she clarified in the doctor's defense.

"You insisted?" Robert wondered with some amusement, needing to build rapport here, not blanch at the unladylike boldness and morbid curiosity. In fact, he was counting on those latter qualities.

"The Dowager Countess is not the only aged lady able to assert herself when needed," Isobel noted with her own twinkle.

"Well," he chuckled, "that actually makes what I wanted to ask you about slightly easier, then."

She paused mid sip, and settled her cup into its saucer. She'd expected there was some agenda for the visit, but not some tie to the blood-stained clothing, or her involvement in village affairs. "I am intrigued; do tell."

"I have a favor to ask, that I hope is not too inappropriate or too much…" And as their tea cooled in its cups, Robert caught her up on the events that had transpired up through Edith's second vision, the doctor's advice, and his own surprise at hearing that the police had now found a shoe.

"I realize that asking you to spend time with a daughter who claims to be seeing angels is perhaps _not_ the best way to make a positive impression on a hopeful… in-law…," he admitted.

She looked up at his very forward invoking of that intended relationship; and recognized he was both desperate to do so, and not finished with his proposal.

"However, Edith would be rightly skeptical of any encouragement from anyone at Downton. We've all made our disapproval quite clear. And, you are clearly a woman of great intelligence, clinical experience, and… confidence. Your interest and advice to Edith will be well received, and a more than positive influence as she works through this."

Isobel placed the cup on the table, and folded her hands neatly in her lap, primarily so that she could inconspicuously clutch herself in disbelief at what the drop-in visit had become. She narrowed her eyes at her cousin-by-marriage, but maintained her decorum, "I am flattered by the confidence you have shown in me, both by sharing the situation—I recognize that couldn't have been easy, and by suggesting I can be of some assistance. However, if I'm to agree, I must understand, mother to father, what specifically is it you want _me_ to do?"

Robert smiled and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. She had sensed immediately there was an ulterior motive to his visit, and now to this request. Which meant she was perfect for the task at hand. "Without getting in the way of—or involved in—the police investigation, or letting on our intentions or discussions, I'd like you help Edith _disprove_ herself. Any man she saw in the storm is long gone; and her imagination has literally put her at risk, never mind her larger reputation. Quietly, thoroughly and _quickly_ , please help my daughter confirm to herself that there is no one to find or follow, at Downton or beyond. For everyone's sake, she must leave it behind, and move on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Angel and Wink having to leave the nest soon, would love to know what folks think of how it's going. With appreciation for the kudos, please review constructively!


	11. Hope(s)

Knock. Knock. "Wink?" he 'coughed' as he entered his own room. Flipping the lock, Thomas turned as a comically dressed Ian slowly slid out from under the bed with a multi-leveled grimace. Too long trousers were rolled up so he didn't step on the hems; and an oversized shirt draped on him like a tunic, with its own upturned sleeves.

"I'm glad to be in clothes, full stop; but I look silly," Ian bashfully showed off his costume.

"Adorable," Thomas corrected and teased, setting down the basket he'd carried with him, and nodding his sore model to join him in sitting on the bed. "I can only stay a moment, but wanted to bring you something to hold you 'til after dinner," he offered a heavily buttered roll and a small apple, which Ian started into immediately.

Turning Ian's head for a better lit look at his slowly healing injuries, the host again felt bad at having only been able to sneak away with a handful here and there through the day. He'd grudgingly gone back to work that morning, knowing a prolonged illness would only invite more visitors; and being back in the downstairs mix meant he was near food more often, and could get more than what they'd bring him for one person. "It'll be easy enough to pocket more as I do the family service."

"I'm grateful, I am. But I do hate that you're havin' to… _take_ it without their knowin'," Ian admitted guiltily.

"You've a good heart, you," Thomas bumped his shoulder, "But, I promise they won't miss it." And it's not the first thing, or likely the last, he'd 'borrowed' from his employers and housemates. Perhaps at some point, he'd explain how he rationalized it all as 'additional payment due' for the long hours and hard work he provided to keep the family lazy and comfortable. Or for regular disgraces he endured at their hands, on their behalf. Such as this afternoon's latest humiliation…

In fact, Thomas was tempted to tell Ian about the police constable who'd been waiting for Lord Grantham on his return from the village that afternoon, and about the single shoe he'd brought with him. And what they'd all had to do to prove it wasn't theirs. But, that would invoke Ian's backstory; and they didn't have time to get deeper into it properly right now.

Instead, he emptied the basket of damp laundry into the straight chair, also leaving instructions, "While I'm downstairs, tuck a towel under the door, and you can leave on the light. I talked Daisy into doing a load for me special, given how I'd been ill and all. So if you don't mind hanging these about to dry, by morning, they'll give us some more options for you. And," he pulled a final gift out his other coat pocket, handing Ian a pin cushion, promising, "You can pin up the clothes you're wearing. I can help get the fittings proper, and take measurements, when I'm back up…"

He looked up to find Ian staring at him, not in affront at the chores given him, but again trying to take him in, to figure him out. He smiled, understanding the suspicion, especially given Ian's last experience with refined 'hospitality.' So, he winked at Wink, and reminded, "Towel under, and lock the door behind me. I'll be back as quick as I can, with something proper to eat. I promise. We're good?"

Ian nodded he would trust. He had to. He wanted to.

* * *

"Whatever did you tell him?" Mary looked up from her second course aghast, a little surprised her father had actually let the officer have a second audience when he had nothing meaningfully new to offer or ask.

The other members of the immediate family sitting around the dinner table turned toward him, curious themselves.

"I told him that, like the gored jacket he'd already traipsed through the study, this random shoe wouldn't fit anyone in this house. But he was most insistent, and had poor Carson line up all the male staff—butler to hall boy—to compare foot sizes."

"And I assume none of our staff were the unlucky match for this prince un-charming?" the eldest joked, stoking the fire.

"Certainly not," the increasingly agitated Earl agreed. "And then I asked him rather pointedly whether it looked, to his trained, eye whether anyone had been beaten bloody recently?"

"Robert! Not at the table!" Cora scolded.

"Well, I'm sorry; but he should know full well that we had nothing to do with his mystery clothing, and that we want nothing to do with it either. It's not like they even have a victim, and thus no crime."

Thomas worked hard not to flinch at the quick dismissal of Wink's suffering.

"Isn't it his job, papa, to be concerned about us and others?" Sybil asked, trading looks with her sisters and mother as to their father's vehemence.

"Precisely. So I don't understand his return to Downton when it's clear we're _not_ involved. He's almost as bad as Edith and her 'angels', or Cousin Isobel and her meddling…"

"What has Cousin Isobel to do with any of this?"

"I shouldn't have said anything," the patriarch seemed to regret.

"Well you did," his wife pointed out.

Robert sighed, "It seems she was visiting Dr Clarkson when the constable presented his 'evidence' there. And she expressed a surprising curiosity in the affair…"

"How disappointing," Mary judged between sips of wine. "Though, I suppose a woman of her station must find something to occupy her time, as accustomed to blood and bodies as she has been. Professionally, of course."

"We should invite her and cousin Matthew to dinner tomorrow night or Sunday luncheon after church," Edith suggested mildly, if in clear opposition to her sister's disdain.

"Is there an occasion? Or are you simply planning to regale us all with another round of 'guess what I've just seen in the fireplace' charades?" Mary responded coldly.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Edith," her mother interjected. "It will give us a chance to make up for the whirlwind that was their last visit."

"Splendid," Edith agreed with a smile. "I'd be happy to go and make the invitation first thing tomorrow. I shouldn't mind at all."

"Are you sure you're feeling up to it?" Robert worried.

"The fresh air and change of scenery will do me good."

"Perhaps we can talk with them about Christmas plans," Sybil suggested based on the previous night's discussions. "Of course we'll want them here; and we should confirm now so they don't make other arrangements."

"That's very thoughtful, Sybil," Cora approved.

Nods all around overshadowed Mary's eye roll. Unappreciated and outvoted again.

That settled, Cora risked a quick glance at her husband, nodding him a deserved "well-played."

He nodded a gracious "thank you," with a hint of "you expected less?"

Edith fell quiet, planning how best to engage the support of her also curious older cousin.

* * *

Ian looked up suddenly, realizing that Thomas had changed into his pyjamas, perched on the end of the bed, and then proceeded simply to watch him intently, as he intently laid waste to his only major meal of the day.

Rather than judgement of his dining gusto, the look on Thomas' face was, in fact, a mix of amusement and pride. They were finally both fully awake and coherent, and not reacting to some imminent threat of illness or discovery. His patient's appetite had returned. And without anyone downstairs being the wiser, he'd successfully pulled the travel dish from a cupboard, packed it with platter scraps and leftovers on his runs between the dining room and kitchen, and then snuck it upstairs in a second basket of laundry.

"Did you want some?" Ian offered sheepishly, licking some rich crème off his upper lip.

"There's only the one spoon," Thomas demurred.

"I don't mind, if you don't," Ian shrugged. He scooped up a large dollop of dessert, and held it out for Thomas to slurp off graciously, while smiling and trying not to catch his teeth on the utensil. "Manners, mister butler!" Ian teased.

"Ah tull you," Thomas threw his head back to keep from spilling the shared gift, "I'm not the butler; I'm a footman."

"Right; you're just under the butler," Ian tried to recall what Thomas had explained about the house hierarchy. "And when the… Earl dies, Mister Carson moves up, and you become his butler?"

"They really kept you under a bushel, didn't they?" Thomas smiled mournfully. "No, these meek shall _not_ inherit this house, though we keep it well… Alas, it's not likely I'll ever be nobility; but I will also _not_ be a footman, or a butler all me life. I've got bigger dreams than this…"

"Tell me?" Ian asked, setting aside the nearly licked clean dish.

"Well, let's see," Thomas wondered where to start, as he laid down across the foot of the bed. "I'd like to have nice house of me own, of course. Nothing too big, as that'll take lots of staff. And good ones is hard to find, believe you me," he laughed. "And a car, to get around in, or to take to my country place. And enough money to keep it all up, and travel some, and to share a little with people who've been good to me…"

"And never worry about where your next meal will come from, or if it is? Or what you'll have to do to get it?" Ian commiserated, with a knowing sadness in his eye.

"That's a start, yeah," Thomas realized how relative his aspirations must be to someone who'd not even had what little stiff security he'd known, at least of late. "But it'll take a lot of smarts and luck; and lots more opportunity than servin' food here will get me."

"Couldn't ya marry some wealthy woman?" Ian asked, pointing out, "Your Earl's gotta have some lonely widow friends about. And, you're kind, and smart, and… not bad lookin'… as 'footmen' go, I expect."

The scope of that unexpected compliment hung between them for a moment, as Ian waited for an answer, and Thomas considered how to address both it and the original question.

"Now you're the one bein' too kind. I've brought you dinner and dessert; there's nothin' else to be gained tonight by butterin' me up further…"

Ian smiled and nodded, before slipping into an expectant look, knowing what he _was_ still due.

"I-," Thomas picked at the duvet a little. "I'm not sure I'm the marryin' type, really."

Ian looked a little disappointed, "So you wouldn't be sharin' the house, and the car, and the good staff with anyone else?"

"I didn't say that. I guess," he hesitated, before eventually returning to Ian's piercing eye contact, "Like anybody, I just need to be sure I've found the right person to share it all with. Whether they bring the big house with them, or just inspire me to build it…"

They sat for a moment with that possibility.

"For now," Thomas sat up and yawned. "Let's get your measurements done, so I can see about alterin' something for you, or gettin' away to a seamstress I know. I've got an idea for at least a _next_ place for you to stay; but we'll need you not lookin' like a little brother smothered in hand-me-downs…"


	12. Preparations

_**Saturday, 9 November 1912** _

Thomas had used the morning's silver-polishing session to consider possibilities and plans for longer term living options for his guest. In between interruptions to exchange pleasantries with other staff who passed through the servants' hall, he'd tried to think through all the what's and how's of getting Ian into a more stable and secure position, until they could figure out permanent prospects. And, for most of the key elements, he realized he just needed the opportunity to put his plan into action.

He didn't have that many non-work pieces of clothing himself—none of the staff did, as they rarely dressed for themselves; and it wasn't uncommon for a servant to be able to fit all their personal belongings into a single case. And there wasn't another man in or related to the house into whose spare set Ian would comfortably fit, if they had it. So, they'd pinned up what he was wearing well enough to cover him completely and to look decent from a distance; but any passing inspection would give away the numerous tucks and rolls that kept him from tripping over its excess lengths in every direction. They'd soon have to acquire at least one full outfit from somewhere else.

Thankfully, temporary housing was a little easier, as Thomas had identified a safe, nearby and inconspicuous getaway spot within his first few months of arriving at Downton. He hadn't imagined he'd be hiding a person there, to be sure; but its plain-sight privacy would keep this secret just as well as any other contraband he might choose to place or partake of there. With Ian now at least minimally presentable in public, he intended to dispatch him there while everyone was away to church in the morning. He just needed to "borrow" the means of entry from the estate key locker.

As he polished, he also concluded that supplies for that hiding place would be the trickiest step. Beyond getting the food and getting it there on some ongoing basis, Ian would also need a range of other set-up supplies to make anything with the groceries, and to make it homely for any period of time: bedding, toiletries, firewood and even water. Thomas could "lend" some materials from the big house, and arrange for edibles from the village; but it was likely that Ian would have to have some interactions with others to collect the consumable goods. And his unknown face and memorable hair and injuries would make that a risk for recognition or rumors, neither helpful if he wished to remain anonymous.

To some degree, Thomas had anticipated all these issues in the spur of the moment decision to offer Ian shelter that first night. In walking him across the threshold, Thomas had committed his considerable skills to finding a place, some covering and some food for the rain-soaked visitor. He hadn't expected it to be for multiple days already, much less an unknown number of days to come; but he'd known when he did it, that he could provide everything needed for at least a short while.

But as he worked his cloth into the pitcher's handle joint he knew the butler loved to inspect most closely, Thomas realized that he had utterly failed to anticipate one consequence of that invitation, and now, of moving Ian out: He didn't want Ian to go.

That morning, he'd woken a few minutes before his alarm, to find Ian again nestled alongside him, with head on and good arm draped across his chest. For the fourth night, he had shared his bed with the unexpected roommate; and given Ian's improving health, it had been the second night either could have slept in the easy chair instead. But without any discussion or apparent hesitation, they'd just climbed in together and covered up, as if they'd been doing so for years.

And rather than being crowded or uncomfortable in the bed just barely big enough for the tall footman alone, Thomas had slept soundly through the night, from both regular exhaustion and newfound comfort. He couldn't see Ian in the dark, but hoped the steady breathing and relaxed pose suggested the bedfellow was at least comfortable, if not content, as well. And for all that, he had smiled and sighed and relished the moments until the alarm rang.

So for exactly those reasons, he didn't want to imagine Ian tucked away somewhere other than his room, however safer and smarter that might be for them both. No amount of polish could help him think past that inevitable pitfall in his plan; he would be here, and Ian would not. He could, and would have to, visit regularly to check on his hideaway; but those moments would be few and brief. They'd no longer be a staircase away all day, or together all night.

As he'd readied himself for the day, he'd kept glancing at the increasingly familiar form in his bed, and wishing he didn't need to leave him there alone today, much less for any greater or longer separation. Before waking him to take his leave, Thomas had sat on the side of the bed and taken in the sleeping face, a little frightened by the profound impact the arrival had had on him, but appreciating it all the same.

Still pondering these questions scant hours later and several floors down, he realized he'd quickly finished his assigned service ware; and so loaded this gleaming batch onto a tray, and headed to swap it for another. Coming down the hallway, he was nodded into the butler's study and to its silver cabinet, as his supervisor and the housekeeper huddled over several sheets of paper.

He turned in place, waiting to be given his next tray, but Carson had other plans. Without even looking up, he instructed, "Thank you, Thomas. While I pull another tray for you, please let the chauffeur know to bring the car around. Lady Edith will be going into the village to see Mrs Crawley."

"Yes, Mister Carson." He began to turn away, before turning back to seize this unexpected opportunity. "Mr Carson, I wonder whether I might accompany her Ladyship?"

"Oh?" the butler was surprised by the audacity of even this staffer member imagining he could waltz off for the morning, particularly given the past several days. As both Thomas and Mrs Hughes seemed to waiting for his response, he'd obviously heard correctly, and so tried not laugh aloud as he explained, "While appreciating you've been unwell, Thomas, that also means you have _not_ been working, and others," he nodded in the direction of the passing-by William, "have had to cover for you. So you will understand how I am… hard-pressed to see how any additional time away is warranted…"

"That's very true," Thomas agreed sincerely. "And I'll admit my own interest is dropping off some post written while I was recuperating, and getting some fresh air to help my recovery. But, I also know that her Ladyship is going to invite the Crawleys for dinner tonight, or sometime tomorrow. And, I'd be happy to pick up anything Mrs Patmore might need for those extra guests. I've had more experience with the provisioners than William has. And… I thought I might use the chance to get him a little something as a thanks for covering for me. With my own money, course."

Thomas could tell from their wide-eyed and open mouthed silence, that his unsolicited thoughtfulness had indeed caught the two heads of staff entirely unprepared. Pushing for decision over deliberation, he nodded toward the list that he knew Mrs Hughes had been showing him.

Carson seemed to be searching for some counter-argument, but found none as he glanced back and forth between his colleague and subordinate. He even seemed disappointed at having to agree. "Very well; but… you will need to ensure that, if her Ladyship is any way delayed, the car remains available for her use, and you will arrange other transport for yourself and the grocer's goods. I expect you here, clean and ready for prompt and proper luncheon service. Is that understood?"

"Yes, of course, Mr Carson," Thomas grinned, stepping forward to take the grudgingly proffered shopping list. "I very much appreciate it, and won't let you down. Mrs Hughes," he nodded and was gone.

"Well I never," Mrs Hughes blinked after him, wondering aloud for the both of them. "Perhaps that fever burned off some bile…"

* * *

Thomas waited patiently as the chauffeur opened the door for Lady Edith to exit and head into Crawley House.

She still seemed to be deep in thought, as she had through the entire ride to the village. With only a nod to them, she headed mechanically up the path, before turning around suddenly, "Thomas?"

"Yes, milady?" he forced a smile, having almost been able to set about his many errands this cold and tightly scheduled morning.

"Thank you, Taylor," she dismissed the driver until she was ready to travel again. Turning back to the footman, she glanced about for other possible observers, and asked, "I understand you've a shopping list for Mrs Patmore?"

"Yes, milady."

"And I expect Carson wants you back in time for luncheon today, however long my visit goes?"

"Yes, milady."

"Excellent," she smiled immediately, before quickly and confidently laying out part of what she'd been formulating in the back seat. "I am hoping that Mrs Crawley and I will be taking a short ride before I return; and I would appreciate your attendance on, and your sworn silence about, that trip. In exchange, I promise to have you, and any deliveries for which you are responsible, back to the house via the car well in time for service. Am I able to count on you in this?"

She certainly had his attention, as he had clearly underestimated her cleverness. _Impressive._ "I would be happy to help, of course, your Ladyship; but might I know what exactly it is you'll need me for?"

She glanced around again, and took a breath as if to convince herself, "I hope to make a quick stop just north of the village, to check something. Having another man along will reassure anyone who happens to find out, that we were all perfectly safe on that journey."

"You want to go to…." he realized.

"To where the police found the jacket after the storm, yes," she admitted openly and coldly. "I am asking you to do no more than ride along and hold your tongue afterward; in fact, it will require nothing but complete _inaction_ on your part. Without your presence, I worry that we ladies may dawdle too long…"

 _Leaving me to make the long, cold run back to the house in time to clean up for luncheon,_ he understood. This middle daughter was sharper than anyone downstairs had given her credit.

"Do we have an understanding?" she asked sweetly, seeing that he grasped the full extent of the offer.

"I'd best get to my shopping list," he nodded. "If you're faster than they are, I'll be at the grocers or on the way here from there…"

She smiled to seal their deal, and nearly skipped up to the front door. Now she just had to convince cousin Isobel.

Still reeling from the surprise debut of the young noblewoman's conniving side, Thomas turned and walked as quickly as he could to the tailor's shop. With Ian's measurements delivered, he could place Mrs Patmore's grocery order for delivery that afternoon, and hopefully carry his personal purchase with him as he joined the expedition.

Not really caring that he was apparently being used as a potential bodyguard, he was nonetheless happy to be involved in Lady Edith's search for her mystery man. While he had solved far more than she had, this cooperation could offer additional opportunities both to better understand, and to better protect Ian.

And it was also his best guarantee to return by Mister Carson's deadline.


	13. Groundwork

Isobel was not especially proud of herself, for agreeing to accompany Edith on the "quick trip" to where the police had found their first evidence along the north road. The day was certainly a chilly one, as they walked slowly around the car on the edge of the narrow, isolated and wooded stretch of the second-most traveled route toward Newcastle. But beyond that discomfort, she felt bad for stretching her agreement with Earl Grantham by participating in this goose chase, and for giving Edith hope that she might find some connection between the police's hypothetical crime and her own, uncorroborated visions of an injured man-become-angel. Just thinking about it made it seem so absurd.

And while the two male servants were comforting in the unlikely event that some ill-doers still lurked there, those men were also witnesses to the fact that she'd gone along with her impassioned younger cousin. They and the two cars that had stopped to ensure they were not in distress. "Just taking a stretch break. Thank you so kindly for your concern. Travel well!" she'd smiled to each puzzled passer-by.

Still, she hadn't recognized either set of gawking occupants, and hoped they might not recognize her if there were to meet again. And, in the meanwhile, she was earning some appreciation from her cousins, while indulging her own curiosity about her new town, and occupying herself against the isolation the move here had had brought. Not a bad set of goals for a fall Saturday morning.

"Are we quite sure this is the spot the police indicated?" Edith wondered aloud.

"I believe so," Isobel turned in place, pointing out, "We're about the correct distance from town, where the road curves around a stand of trees, and where a tree fell across the road before being pulled clear. Unless your Mister Taylor knows a similar collection of road conditions…?"

The Downton chauffeur shook his head, as he stood by the car, at the ready.

Edith pouted at the complete lack of anything more than the combination of signs to indicate they were in the right location. While she hadn't _expected_ to find something, given what her father and now cousin Isobel had shared from their conversations with the police, she had so _hoped_ to learn more.

"Your Ladyship," called Thomas, who'd asked permission to have a smoke, and walked a little farther off the road. "Do I remember correctly that the police said the storm had downed trees in the area?"

"Yes," she agreed, disappointed he was repeating information they already possessed. "I believe Jarvis said we'd had some large branches down around the house; so the wind must have been considerable."

He continued to stare down at a point along the treeline, drawing a long drag on his cigarette.

"Why do you ask, Thomas?" Isobel joined in, sensing he wasn't simply confirming the obvious.

"Well, I'm no scientist; but if this is the tree that supposedly blocked the road here," he pointed to the horizontal trunk and flattened canopy just beside the roadway, "then it didn't fall. It was cut."

"What?!" the two women gasped, and hurried over, as the footman squatted beside the alleged blockade.

He pointed from the tree's splintered base to its former site along the edge of its sibling growths. "See for yourselves; but I don't think this tree is tall enough to have crossed the road if it just toppled over on its own. And while it definitely fell, there are axe marks on the opposite side of the stump."

As Edith examined the clear cuts in the wood, somewhat obscured by the splits and cracks, Isobel stood back to gauge the distances he was questioning.

"Cousin, he's right!" Edith exclaimed. "Someone had taken a blade to the tree, at least to get it started. There are chips here around the stump!"

"Thomas," Isobel called, "You have good, long strides. Would you be so kind as to count your steps along the tree itself, so we can have some measure of its height? Excellent. And now, count out that many steps from the stump out toward the road? Splendid."

"They don't match, not by quite some distance," Edith summarized.

"Even if the woodsman only started on the tree at some point, and the storm did finish it off," Isobel agreed, "it could _not_ have blocked the road without some assistance. If it weren't cut down for that purpose, it was certainly placed there by someone…"

"That suggests someone laid a trap for our Mister 'G'!"

"Milady," Thomas interrupted softly, his own head spinning from the apparent targeting of Ian's car.

Edith looked over to him, elation still lighting her face; and saw he was looking at his pocket watch. "Luncheon, of course!" Turning to her cousin, she apologized, "I am sorry, but I've promised to return us to Downton in time for midday meal with the family."

With a longing look over her shoulder at their encouraging, if troubling discovery, Edith joined Isobel on the back bench.

Setting off to deliver Mrs Crawley home before speeding back to Downton, Edith clasped her hand on her cousin's, nearly unable to contain her joy, "I so appreciate your being open to sharing this adventure with me. I cannot tell you how pleased I am that we've found a physical clue the police seemed to have missed…"

Isobel smiled politely, working hard not to be caught up in Edith's exuberance, and reminded, "Oh my, I don't believe we've solved anything yet, however astute Thomas' forest physics indeed are. I think it best that we not celebrate or share this insight yet, as we need to see what the police learn from the Manchester cobbler. As today's find suggests there was some malicious intent, perhaps we shouldn't alarm them; we can simply be cautious for them. Especially, as you pointed out, the family is none too keen on our curiosity. For now, let this be our secret?"

Edith sighed and sat back, her bubble burst. "You're right, of course."

"It's agreed, then? We shall avail ourselves of Thomas and Mister Taylor's discretion, and hold our analysis and any announcements until we have more, and more definitive results to share."

Isobel could tell Edith was unhappy at being pulled back from her validating quest, and again regretted squelching that empowering exercise. But, she'd given her word; and they really did need to be careful to what conclusions they leapt, and how quickly. So, she reminded, "Matthew and I will much look forward to joining you all for luncheon tomorrow."

"Perhaps we can find a few moments to speak more while you're with us," Edith's spirit buoyed back, as they pulled up to the House.

"Patience, my dear," she laughed so as not to commit. "We're more Watson than Holmes."

"We'll see you at church then," Edith waved, dropping back into the seat, still swimming in success and possibilities. She had evidence of an intentional trap set on the road, something the police seemed to have missed in their quick glance at the possible crime scene. A jacket there, and a lone shoe found along a rough line between that spot and Downton—someone had escaped, or been carried, and somehow reached the house during the storm. That now seemed certain. All that remained were the details of who he was, why it had happened, and what ultimately had happened to him—a ghost outside her bedroom, or… Or what? _The mystery was delicious!_

The men up front traded knowing looks as they headed home.

But the footman quickly turned his gaze out the window, and his thoughts to what his morning's impromptu jaunt had gained him: A simple suit on order for his "nephew." Provisions ordered for the house cook and gathered for his own hideaway. Treats for a few colleagues to keep them happy, and happy to help.

And, most unexpectedly, more information on how Ian had come into his life, and potential steps leading others to them now. He knew enough about fine clothing to guess that the police would easily find the shoemaker in Manchester who'd made Ian's lost shoe. Given the size and its lack of wear, the cobbler could deduce that it was recently bought, if not made; and that would narrow down the possible buyers, and thus wearers. Especially if they inquired after the "G" initial, and connected all that to the jacket's tailor, they could be close to finding the "gentleman," and through him, about Ian.

Even if someone really had laid a trap for "G," and not for Ian himself, this "G" had abandoned him to the thieves and so was no better. Either way, Thomas could understand why Ian wouldn't want to be pulled back into whatever that mess was. Especially given how fatalistic he'd been the night he barely escaped it.

So, while happy now to be counted among Lady Edith's and Mrs Crawley's investigative inner circle, he had both greater insight, and an altogether deeper mystery to solve. And whether or not he got more answers soon, he did have a small window tomorrow morning to enact the next stage in his plan to protect Ian from everyone else who might be interested in finding him, whatever their reason.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Wink," Thomas smiled back at the face that greeted him on his return to their room just after the luncheon service. Setting down the box he carried and re-locking the door, he turned to find the bed neatly made and all the previous evening's hanging laundry folded into neat piles along its foot. "You've been busy."

"I'm feelin' much better," Ian explained, while trying not to show how his right arm still seemed to bother him. "I wanted to help. I told you I could…"

"I believe you; and I thank you," he patted the good shoulder, and nudged them both toward the sitting chairs. Bringing over the small crate he'd brought and opening it, he produced a bulging chicken sandwich, an apple and a few biscuits. "Here," he draped a napkin across Ian's lap, and lay out the feast for him. "Nobody was paying much attention to the leftovers today. I hope you like it all…"

Bulging cheeks and a gaping corner gone from the sandwich suggested as much as the smile and nod did.

"Careful now. Let's not have you choke so soon after turning back from death's door downstairs." Thomas got him a glass of water, and kept a stern eye on the more tempered eating as he worked. He used the straight chair to reach and open the high window above them, and then slipped the re-closed crate out onto the roof.

Swallowing and then taking a sip when that instruction was mimed to him, Ian finally was able to ask, "What's that?"

"A surprise that just needs to be kept cool, in me own personal rooftop larder," Thomas explained in a mock posh accent. Moving to his next task, he also redirected their attention to the pencil and paper beside Ian's chair, "Were you able to jot down some favorites?" To help him pass the time alone in the room, he'd left a few books, an older newspaper, and some stationary for Ian to write down foods he liked—the better to cater for him later.

"I'm not much good with letters and numbers," Ian confessed through his chewing, with a slightly embarrassed look.

"What did you spend your day doin', then?" Thomas wondered aloud as he changed out of the morning plus travel plus luncheon shirt.

He noticed Ian trying not to obviously look his way, as the diner explained, "Just… drawin' a little…"

"I didn't know we had an _artist_ in the house now," Thomas grinned at the attention and revelation. "Can I see?" he asked as he dropped the fresh shirt and strode over quickly.

Hands covered in sandwich remnants, and the stack of materials on his bad side, Ian scrambled to reach them first, or at least block access. But Thomas was too quick, unencumbered and curious.

Stepping back and flipping through the sheets, Thomas saw multiple small, scattered sketches of the bed, the wardrobe and a large building he didn't quite recognize. And at the bottom of the pile, on the last piece of paper, in fine detail and shading, was a mirror image of his own face, as if he were looking up at himself.

He sank into the seat across from Ian, and wondered how obvious was the blush creeping across _his_ face for once. He stuttered to a smile, "Ian… I- I thought you said you had no trade or skill. I'd prefer you didn't lie to me…"

"I'm no artist. Just somethin' I've always done to pass the time. Somethin' I can do on me own…"

"It's beautiful," Thomas looked up at him, almost overwhelmed.

"I just draw what I see."

 _This is going to make tonight, and the morning, so much harder… But that will be then!_ He gently placed the stack back on the small table, swallowed hard and willed himself to keep his seat as he looked at his remarkable find. "You are an… amazing man, Ian Colson. I hope you know that."

Now Ian blushed, his slowly healing injuries popping like Dalmatian spots as he squirmed in his seat under the unfamiliar praise.

"Will you do one of you?" Thomas asked, pointing at the mirror across the room. "Only fair we _both_ get immortalized… But," he said, as he stood and threw on his shirt and headed back to work, "do leave one sheet blank, as I'll need to draw you a map tonight."

"A map? To what?"

"To a little more freedom."


	14. His Story

"Are you well?" O'Brien looked up at him with pure, cynical suspicion. "That must have cost a fortune!"

"What?" Thomas started at the ferocity of her distrust. "No; I'm fine now. It's a gift; go on, take it…"

Without taking her eyes of him, she took a drag off her cigarette with one hand, and carefully scooped up the open wax paper with the other. "What flavor?"

"They only had rosewater," he shrugged and lit a match to join her. "Hope that's alright."

"It's all there is; so I _have_ to like it, don't I?" she smirked, hurriedly finishing her own smoke so she could sample the sweet. "I've only ever had Turkish delight the once before… Hard to say whether I'd like another flavor more."

That she was even considering it was a good sign, Thomas knew. And when she closed her eyes on biting into it, he was sure he had succeeded. Still, best to reinforce her unique and special place in his world. "I gave William and Daisy one square each, for coverin' for me this week, while I was not feelin' me best."

"What's my second one for?" she queried around slow, relishing chews.

"For not sayin' anythin' about my stormy night 'quality checks' on the household's liquor stock," he grinned.

"You never told me you'd done that."

"Precisely…"

* * *

With his most amenable co-workers rewarded for their past, and hopefully future, support, Thomas then just had to get through dinner with the family.

While serving and "not" observing, he could tell Lady Edith wanted to say more when her father asked after Cousin Isobel, beyond her plans to come back with them after church in the morning. As always, she was desperate to prove her worth to the collective judgment, especially as dismissive as Lady Mary had been around the storm and angel visions. But, with some great effort, she held her tongue on the topic entirely, giving her older sister no opportunity to mock her involvement in the first place, and her father none to admonish her success today. She seemed willing and able to play the longer game.

Given that restraint, she was probably also eager to get through the evening's pleasantries, if only to speed along a re-convening with her cousin the next morning to continue their investigation of the roadside ambush. Thomas just wanted to get them fed, his post-dinner chores done, and up to see Ian, in order to launch the next step in his scheme to correct that assault's damage.

Finally, he was able to share his thanks again, volunteer to take up a load of linens for the men's bathroom, and thus retire for the evening. Slipping into his own room to drop off the meal hidden amongst the towels, he let Ian eat as he made the delivery, and cleaned himself from the busy day and in preparation for church in the morning.

Wishing William a good night as he passed in the hall, Thomas entered his room, as Ian wiped down the plate with the last scrap of dinner roll. "Your appetite seems stronger than ever, and you look healthier," he observed.

Having looked at himself all afternoon, while drawing Thomas' requested self-sketch, Ian disagreed, "I look worse today; I'm all bruises and scabs."

"That's a sign you're gettin' better," his host insisted, joining him on the bed, and turning his head to check the unpretty progress.

"Thank you for sayin' so, and for dinner and all," Ian changed the subject.

"Don't thank me just yet," Thomas nervously transitioned to the delicate subject that wouldn't wait any longer. "We've talked already about how you can't stay here, in the house with me. It's only a matter of time before someone finds you, or notices the food I'm takin'. And it's not fair to you to be caged up here like you've done somethin' wrong…"

"I haven't minded…," Ian tried to reassure. "Really."

Thomas smiled at the suggested mutual enjoyment, and dreaded the break in that connection they now faced. "So, I've come up with a way for you to stay close, while you keep gettin' better. Until your injuries and borrowed clothes won't attract attention; and so we can figure out what's next for ya, in a more permanent way."

"I can't go back," Ian reminded, with a little anxiety in his face and voice.

"I know; this is about movin' forward. So, if you'll hand me paper and your pencil, I'll draw you the map I promised, and explain what needs to happen next." He watched Ian move to the chairs and back with less stiffness and more comfort; another good sign.

Ian delivered the supplies and sat down right next to him, intent on displaying his trust and attentiveness. And perhaps his own wish to stay close.

As he drew a quick sketch of the house and nearby area, Thomas explained, "The estate has a number of cottages—rowhouses really—that tenants, and occasionally staff, have lived in through the years. But His Lordship has let a number of them go idle; nobody goes near the empty ones, much less into them. So, I've... borrowed a key to one; and we're goin' to set you up there, at least while you heal up enough to not draw attention, and we figure out somethin' longer term."

"I have to stay there by myself?" Ian looked distressed at the apparent exile.

"I know it's not ideal; but it's only temporary; and I'll make sure you have everythin' you need…," he tapped his head again Ian's furrowed brow. "See here: Tomorrow mornin' after breakfast, the whole house will leave for church, and be gone nearly two hours, with travel time. Once we're all out, you'll run down and get some hot water from the kitchen, to have a quick bath up here; you can leave the towel in my basket. Then, you'll take that basket of food I brought up earlier, and a set of beddin' I'll give you. Make sure you're wearin' a cap to hide those goldilocks, and slip out the back," he pointed to the house's service entrance on the map. "Go directly to the empty cottage here. And if anybody happens to notice ya, just nod and keep goin' and don't stop; you'll look like you're makin' a delivery."

While not looking happy, Ian clearly understood the steps to get safely to the new hiding place. He was sharp, and was trying to trust.

"Lock yourself in, and head upstairs—just so you'll be out of sight in case anyone happens to walk past. All four of these houses share a common chimney; so you can make fire in the bedroom hearth for warmth, without giving yourself away. I'll come by in the afternoon with a few more things, and to help you cover all the windows. It'll be like havin' your own flat!"

"Except recently," Ian's smile faltered at that memory, before recovering at the irony of getting his own cottage, "I've never even had me own bed."

"You deserve more; but this is a start. We can plan from there about findin' you some decent work and a proper place to live."

Ian looked at him intensely, so clearly trying to read for ulterior motives or nefarious interests, to decide whether continued trust was warranted, especially when he had few other options.

Expecting that being sent off to yet another new, strange place was stressful enough, Thomas met his gaze, hoping to reinforce his good intentions. And to hide his broader knowledge of the dual investigations seeking his "gentleman's" identity, and by extension, his. Ian seemed so distressed at the idea of being connected back to his previous life. But it was only a matter of time before the police and/or Lady Edith and Mrs Crawley put the pieces they had together, and what that identification meant for Ian, Thomas wasn't sure. He only knew it would be best if he could connect all the dots first.

"Ian, the other thing I wanted to talk about tonight... And I hate to ask it; but especially as we look toward future, I need to be able to help you avoid the parts of your past you want to break from. I won't press you for more; but I at least need to know the name of the home you lived in, and of your 'gentleman' patron –if only to make sure we steer clear of them."

Ian swallowed and looked down, as if some fear had been confirmed, or the expected other shoe had dropped. _Of course there was a catch!_

Thomas pressed him with a little detail on why the further trust was needed. "The night you found us, you dropped a bloodied handkerchief on the front steps. It had the initial 'G' embroidered on it. So the family and the police have that clue as to who might have been out and about that night. They don't know more or that you're not 'G' yourself; but if you can tell me who he is, I can better plan for and protect you."

Ian got up from the bed and paced, glancing at the door and window, as if another escape might be preferable to confessing, even to this to-date caretaker. Finally he stopped and faced the worried Thomas, still sitting on the bed. "I don't wanna think about those days again; not ever. But I'll give you the names, if you tell me why are you doin' all this for me. Why all this extra work and risk for yourself…" He motioned at his clothes and bandages, the bed and the map. It was clear that he too had been thinking about the interests and motivations of his unchosen partner. "I'll trade you."

"Fair enough," Thomas agreed quickly. Not that he wanted to start spilling his history or thoughts; but the exchange showed that Ian was no gushing fool—a positive in itself, and that he was interested in knowing more about Thomas—also a plus.

So, Thomas set the map aside, and patted the bed beside him. When Ian had joined him, he took a breath and made his offering of information. "I want to help you, Ian, because I like you. And I think we may be a lot alike…"

Ian looked puzzled and a little nervous at that confession and connection.

Thomas turned toward him, and recounted his story to date. "I told you my father was a clockmaker—not a bad profession, considerin'. We weren't wealthy, but we weren't poor neither. My dad liked everythin' as orderly as his clocks—the house, the meals, the children; so my sister and I had a pretty rigid upbringin'. Not harsh or horrible, but strict to be sure. And, like any father, I suppose, mine wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, to be like him."

Having never really shared this with anyone, Thomas fidgeted with his hands as he continued, "But what I was also learnin' when I went with him to the large houses he'd visit to tune or repair their clocks, was that I wanted to _have_ the house, the wealth—not to _serve_ those homes or people. I wanted somethin' more and different than my father did, to be somethin' more than he was. And the older I got, the more certain of that I became, and the more that gap between us grew."

He glanced up at Ian, who was looking back without judgement; he was just taking it in, and nodded him on.

"One day—well, let's just say it all came to a head. He realized I wasn't goin' to carry on the family business, ...or the family name, either. So, at sixteen I found meself out on me own, and needin' to get away, to start over." His voice caught a little, even as he glossed over the details of that inglorious incident; and Ian reached over and took his hand.

Eyes brimming, he looked over to find Ian's the same; and took heart at his gamble to share. "Thankfully, I knew enough about those big houses, and some people in them, to get on with one up here in York as a hall boy. I grew, worked hard and smart, and had that clock knowledge too; so I moved up, and moved on fast, and eventually got taken on here at Downton about two years ago as first footman. Not quite the path I'd hoped for, but I'm still climbin'."

He laughed, and sniffled, "So, to answer your question, I don't know what specifically it was when I found you the other night, but somethin' in me… recognized somethin' in you... Maybe it's that I have some idea of what it's like to be sent away, to need to get away, and to face the uphill future alone. I didn't know your story that night you appeared; and I still don't know it all. But I could tell in the midst of that storm—I _can_ tell now that, for all your troubles, you're a fighter, and too good a person to have to go through this, much less alone. Not if I can do anythin' about it."

Ian laced his fingers into Thomas', cementing the shared experience and common commitment. He whispered, perhaps to them both, "You weren't a victim, and didn't let him make you into one. And you've been me angel as I make me escape. You didn't have to tell me none of that, on top of everythin' else you've shared; I know that. So, if you'll promise to let them be, I'll tell you who _I'm_ leavin' behind."

Thomas nodded.

"I grew up at the Strangeways Youth Charity Society, and was taken out by... by the Baron Greenhall. They're all as dead to me, as I am to them. So promise me we won't ever speak of them, ever again…?"

 _Jackpot!_ And just as sincerely, Thomas nodded his agreement. A genuine smile breaking across his face, he jumped up and headed to the window. "I was goin' to wait and give you this in the new place; but I think you've more than earned it tonight."

He felt around inside the crate outside, and returned to the bed with a small, tied bundle of wax paper. "I got you a little somethin' extra today; go ahead, open it. It might need to warm up a little…"

Untying the satchel, Ian uncovered two small, white dusted squares of pinkish glass. Utterly confused, he looked up to the smiling giver.

"It's a sweet: Turkish delight. You eat it."

Ian pinched the unexpectedly squishy cube, sniffed it, and took a tentative bite from one corner, all while watching Thomas' amused observation. "Tastes like flowers?" he worried he wasn't getting it right.

"Like roses," Thomas nodded. "It's a delicacy, a treat."

"You mean it cost a lot," Ian understood, beginning to hand it back. "You shouldn't-"

Thomas caught his hands and pushed back, "It's a gift, to celebrate your feelin' better. And… hopefully to make up for the big change as of tomorrow."

Ian looked down at the symbol of all that Thomas had already given him, and the yet still more he was planning to share. He understood the necessity of the morning's move; but didn't like the idea of not being close to his protector, guide and… friend. Being on his own really wasn't part of his experience until recently. He knew Thomas wasn't pushing him away, but helping him up. But he still had to make sure Thomas understood he needed— he _wanted_ to be close.

So, "We'll share it." With a grimace on using both hands, he held Thomas' palm open, and set the un-nibbled cube into it.

Thomas grinned, so relieved that Ian wasn't too bothered by the strategic relocation, that their mutual trust had been deepened, and that despite the change in daily distance, they would be, "Together."


	15. Good Word(s)

_**Sunday, 10 November 1912** _

"I don't like leavin' the church before the service is over. It feels wrong," Daisy worried as she trudged back up toward the grand house beside Mrs Patmore.

"I know," the cook agreed honestly as she marched with a worldly mission. "But we stayed through the gospel and sermon at least; so we've heard the Good Word for the week. And there's no way we'll get the soufflés done in time for luncheon if we didn't come back a little early. I warned Mrs Hughes in advance; and no one saw us slip out. The good Lord knows it weren't meant as slight to Him; and there's better measure of our faith than time-in-pew…"

Daisy did not look comforted about the risk to her eternal salvation.

"I understand Mr Crawley has to get back to Manchester this evening for his job in the morning; and I don't mean to speak ill of him or anybody," she reassured ears physical and mystical, as they walked along the front of the house, toward the side entrance. "But I do wish they'd not offered them luncheon knowing we'd be gone all morning. Perhaps Mr Carson hasn't quite got the dining room ready yet, and we'll have a little more time to prepare…"

Daisy had to stop abruptly, as Mrs Patmore turned suddenly to place her face against the window they were passing.

"Let's just see…," the cook squinted to see through the panes and across the short distance to the set table. Unable to make it all out clearly, she twisted and turned, hoping for a better angle or light. And it was in such a long glance down the length of the table that she saw him: the blurry, lanky figure with golden curls and a disfigured face, staring back at her from a corner of the room.

Understanding himself seen, he stepped toward her, raising one arm and opening his mouth as if to speak.

But before he could do any more, Beryl Patmore had let out her own ghostly moan and was well on her way to a gravelly repose.

* * *

"I told her we should nah have left church early; it weren't right. Not right," Daisy sobbed into Thomas' jacket, on which she had not released her grip since the rest of the staff had returned to find her fretting over the woozy cook beside the house.

The other men had hastily helped Mrs Patmore around and down into Mrs Hughes' sitting room, while the rest of them gathered in the servants' hall. Bates and Anna were trying to calm down the cook, as the butler and housekeeper took William up to welcome the family, and to break news of the fright-delayed meal. The younger staff sat quietly by, not sure what do with their leaders otherwise engaged, and none of the regular Sunday morning routine available to occupy them by habit.

Everyone looked up nervously as William bounded down the stairs and peeked in, "Her Ladyship's asked for tea service for 'em all, least 'til they sort out luncheon."

Everyone looked to Daisy.

Thomas looked at William, "What are they sayin'?"

William was bug-eyed and swallowed as he reported that, "I've never seen His Lordship so angry, and not about luncheon, but about 'everyone seeing things that don't exist.' If it weren't for the Crawleys visiting and all, I don't know what he'd do."

Everyone tried to imagine what that scene would be like, each probably in a mix of fear and morbid curiosity.

"Her Ladyship _was_ clear on the tea," William reminded, again looking at Daisy, and then to Thomas as the ranking member of staff present.

"Go and see if Mrs Patmore is up for tea, or luncheon beyond," he dismissed William, before gently prying the cook's de facto assistant loose from his arm. "Daisy, I'm sure Mrs Patmore is fine; and I _know_ you are. We need you to pull yourself together, and help me pull together tea for seven." He led her stiffly down to the kitchen as William stepped into the sitting room down the other hallway.

* * *

Several long, awkward minutes after William had been dispatched for it, he and Thomas entered the sitting room with two trays of tea and biscuits. As the second footman set about distributing the refreshments, the first footman whispered a stream of updates to the butler and housekeeper who stood pale and stiff just inside the door.

"Milord, milady," Carson stepped forward as Thomas began working saucers and cups in the other direction, "I have just been informed that Mrs Patmore has washed up, and resumed her post in the kitchen. If the company are willing to forgo the soufflés, everything else should be ready to begin within a few moments."

All the most finely appointed people in the room, except one, smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. That one, _the_ one, however, refused his tea and instead finished off the stiffer drink he'd poured himself earlier, on his way in. With a loud inhale, he decreed, "Excellent news, Carson. Perhaps everyone would like a few moments to freshen up before we sit down, and enjoy our hard-earned meal together."

As his wife stood to start that progress, and Matthew jumped to his feet in politeness, the Earl continued his pronouncement. "Then, once our dear guests have returned to the peace and quiet of their home, the rest of us will search _this_ house from attics to basements. Every single room and rack is to be opened and checked for unexpected persons or evidence thereof. And anything, _anything_ out of the ordinary is to be brought to me immediately. We will turn out, finally and absolutely, any whisper of any belief in any stowaways or spirits at Downton. Am I clear?" he looked for some confirmation from each member of his staff present and his immediately family. His unhappy gaze landed finally and fully on Lady Edith.

Opposite her, Isobel tried to share a supportive glance, without catching the furious father's eye.

And behind Mrs Crawley, Thomas focused all his self-control not to bolt away to the bedroom, bath or outbuilding to learn for himself why Ian had allowed himself to be seen again, and whether he'd gotten away safely as planned. If he were found here in the house, Daisy's fears of hell to pay would fall upon them both. And no good words today would save them.


	16. Open Alliances

"Thomas?" she called as the family and upstairs staff were dismissed from their post-search dressing down. The exasperated Earl of Grantham had dismissed them all with clear instructions never to speak of the storm, handkerchief or "ghost" situations again, as nothing whatsoever was found suggesting there was, or had been, anyone in the house who should not have been.

"Yes, milday?" he left his Lordship to a final drink, and approached the daughter who summoned him.

Edith waved him to the side of the hall, and looked about to be sure that everyone else had gone down or up to prepare for dinner. "I have a favor to ask of you."

He nodded, keeping his face pleasant despite desiring to get on with his own important business of the evening. He reminded himself that she too was searching for Ian's fairweather patron; and might have something useful to add, after today's hair-raising close call.

"Despite the afternoon's outcome, you know, as I do, that something _was_ intentionally done to someone on that roadside. And that he headed toward Downton, leaving a bloody handkerchief on the step at the very least. A soaking wet cloth does _not_ blow a few feet, much less several miles. So even if you do not believe that two different Downton residents have now seen the same, or at least similar, stranger on three separate occcasions, you understand that something _did_ happen out there?" she nodded toward the front door.

"I know that we don't know _what_ happened, milady," he mostly truthfully acknowledged.

"Precisely. And I won't ask you to disobey my father; so we won't speak of anything to him. But as you do know more than most, and seem to have a keen eye for the… unseemly-"

"Thank you?" He wasn't sure how quite she meant it.

"…So I would ask that you stay attentive, and let me know should you come across anything that might help us better understand. Simple enough, yes?" she smiled, as if she'd only asked him what he thought of the weather.

He certainly didn't want to cross the Earl; and he wasn't keen to share all he _did_ know with the Earl's daughter. But, the connection could be useful. "As you wish, milady. It's just— Well, I could best know what to watch for, what's relevant, if you would also keep me updated with anything you learn. So I may be of best service to your Ladyship?" He grinned his most ingratiating grin, full charm.

"I do believe we give you too little credit, Thomas," she smiled mischievously. "Co-conspirators it is, then. And, as you saw yesterday, Mrs Crawley is also a trusted source and confidant. I hope that, amongst the three of us, we may get to the bottom of this yet, and perhaps before the police do!" She sighed smugly, and headed upstairs with a wink and nod.

Thomas also took a deep breath, and headed downstairs to see whether he had time to slip away before dinner was ready.

* * *

Only hours later, after an even terser than usual dinner—though with every piece of china and silverware twice accounted for, Thomas was finally able to slip out. Making sure he puffed more slowly than O'Brien did, he laughed that he was going to "enjoy as many minutes out of that tension tinderbox as possible," and let her head up to change the Countess.

As soon as she had closed the door behind her, he gathered an armful of supplies he'd tucked around the corner, and set off for Ian's cottage, hoping the night's chill would offset his exertion in the good livery. Reaching the entirely dark building in record time, he quietly knocked the pattern they'd agreed to, and waited.

A few, nervous moments later the door opened with a whispered relief, "You came?"

"Of course I came," he chided, slipping into the inky interior. "But it took me forever, because a certain someone got himself seen by the cook this mornin'; and we've spent the rest of the day searchin' the house from top to bottom for him, didn't we?"

Feeling the hand on his arm tense and then begin to let go, Thomas softened. "I'm sorry; but things obviously did not go as planned."

"No, I'm sorry, I-"

"First things first," he was interrupted. "Hold this stack while I cover the window down here." He could almost hear the grimace as Ian held out both arms to take the pile of cloth handed to him.

A quick, fast tapping suggested to Ian that Thomas was tacking a piece of the heavy cloth to the four corners of the solitary window on this story.

"Can you lead us upstairs?" Thomas suggested, putting his hand on Ian's shoulder, and squeezing gently to show no real hard feelings.

A few stumbles later, they were in the single bedroom upstairs, where Thomas repeated the window process, and then whispered, "Fireplace?"

Having spent the day in the space, Ian walked them easily to that centerpiece. Guessing a fire was next, he set the remaining cloth into the nearby chair, and then guided Thomas's hands to the pile of logs and newspaper already in the firebox.

A match strike from the pack in the footman's pocket gave them their first glimpse of each other since early that morning. Ian grinned guiltily as Thomas gave him a quick once over, before turning the flame to the kindling he'd placed there during several quick, stock-up excursions to the cottage over the past few days.

"You didn't light a fire earlier today? Weren't you cold?" Thomas worried as the dry wood caught quickly, and a soft glow and slow warmth spread into the small, chilly space.

"I was afraid to," Ian admitted. "I knew I'd been seen at the house… And I didn't have nothin' but sheets to cover the windows 'til now. No one had found me by sunset; no need to risk callin' attention to meself…"

Thomas couldn't be irritated at that reasonable concern, or the face invoking it. But he was quite annoyed, on top of his relieved fears for that face's unknown escape fate. Before addressing that, he made himself ask instead, "You did eat?"

Ian nodded to the crate he'd brought down with him that morning. "Like you told the grocer, perfect for a 'day trip picnic.' I made a sandwich midday and for supper, and can set it by the door to keep it chill now that you've gotten me a fire."

"Good," Thomas smiled genuinely, before modeling the shivering squatter to warm himself by the stable fire. "I can't stay; but wanted to bring you the coverings, that blanket and a hanging kettle for the fire. There should be tea and sugar in the crate as well."

"You've set me up a right nice hideaway," Ian nodded gratefully, still seeming to be surprised at the consistent and costless generosity.

"Which you nearly didn't get to," Thomas turned serious, frustrated at the morning's near miss. "Why didn't you just leave directly, like I told you to?"

"I was goin' to!" Ian protested in his own defense. "I'd cleaned up meself and the room too; and was on my way out when… when it occurred to me that I might not have another chance to see the space you work in, to see more of your life—what you do, and what you want. I didn't touch or take nothin'; I promise. I just walked around and had a look see; it's huge! So many rooms, and fancy things…!"

Hardening from being briefly touched by Ian's interest in his daily life and greater designs, Thomas' face indicated he was not concerned with the beauty of the house in which Ian was almost caught.

"And they weren't supposed to be back so soon, you'd said; so when I heard the voices out the window, I just froze in place, hopin' they'd keep on. But when she looked in and saw me, I was gonna tell her I was makin' a delivery. And then she fainted; so I ran. Downstairs, out the door, and through as much brush as I could to get here. I'm sorry!"

"Well, thankfully, no one seems to have noticed you once you did leave. And our search of the _entire_ house proved to almost everyone that there was no one lurking about. But had you tarried a moment longer, or not been on your way out in the first place… Mister Carson would have discovered you himself when he went through my room this afternoon."

"I am sorry," was really all Ian could say. It was clear he was most disappointed at having let down his benefactor.

"Just don't do it again?" Thomas asked, with a playful bat to the nose, before he stood and headed for the bedroom door. "So, if you're good for at least the night, I must get back to that same, suspicious house. I'll check on you-"

"Thomas?" Ian jumped up and called out, with a tinge of panic, stopping the footman instantly.

Turning, he could immediately see the swallowed fear in Ian's eyes and fidgeting hands.

"What if someone comes? Or... or somethin' happens?"

Thomas walked back over and took hold of drooped shoulders, to calm their understandable anxiety. "You'll be fine. Should someone come—which they _won't_ —hide safely if you can, or tell them I let you in, if it comes to it; it's on me that you're here. Or, if you can, get to the service door up at the house, and ask for me. We'll figure it out from there."

Ian nodded an unconvinced understanding.

Knowing it had not been enough, Thomas tipped up the doubting face, pointing out he knew that, "There's somethin' else."

Ian swallowed, and his jaw rippled with tension as he worked up the nerve or words to haltingly confide, "I've never really been by meself… I'm not used to… sleepin' on me own. In strange places. At night." He looked like he expected Thomas to laugh in his face for fearing the dark or being alone, or to strike him across it for the suggestion they spend yet another night in close quarters.

So he was entirely caught off guard when, instead, the taller man just wrapped his arms around him, confessing, "I've grown to enjoy the company myself."

The long exhale accompanying the returned embrace suggested that the appreciation was mutual.

Thomas relaxed his grip enough to catch Ian's eyes and admit, "I can't promise ya dozens of bunkmates like you grew up with. But if you'll take quality over quantity, I'll go make my goodnights, and be back quick as I can." Not wanting to go at all, he interrupted their shared smiles to risk adding a kiss to the top of his roomer's head. "Wait up for me?"

The unchanging smile on the nod propelled him toward the house with an urgency that had nothing to with the risk of being caught. In fact, he understood fully that he had already been ensnared, happily and completely.


	17. Well Laid (Plans)

Actually getting in and out of the house beyond the realm of regular hours was never the hard part; that was just a door and lock. It was getting past the unsleeping eyes of the heads of staff that was tricky. But not impossible for the skilled, practiced and determined. Tonight, the worst part of the undertaking was simply keeping calm as Thomas said his goodnights, gathered his things, and waited for the right moment to slip downstairs. It was all he could do _not_ to run into, through and back out of the servants' areas singing.

Without attracting unwanted attention, he got to the cottage and knocked, just as he finished calculating exactly how late he could sleep here, and still be back and ready for the Monday footman routine without raising suspicions. He took the hand that reached out to him and again let Ian lead him upstairs. Immediately on setting down his satchel, he set his clock; he'd keep it handy so he would be sure to hear it, but could silence it quickly, lest the neighbors be alarmed.

Only then beginning to remove his jacket and shoes, he turned to find that Ian had spread out his basic bedding before the fireplace, and was waiting to see whether his turn at hosting would be up to snuff. "I brought you some more paper and pencils…," Thomas started to explain, before he just trailed off on fully realizing that he was now undressing, so he could spend the night, alone and fireside, with this wondrous, mystery man. He found himself just staring, probably too admiringly, and certainly too obviously.

"What?" Ian glanced around, concerned something had given Thomas pause, doubts or regrets about his return.

"Nothing," the dark-haired man smiled, and led them to sit on the thinly padded pallet, facing one another in front of the hearth. Through his joy, he forced himself to be sensible as well, for both their sakes. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous and self-conscious. "Uhm, I need to know you're sure about my being here, about spending another night together…"

"I asked you to stay, to come back," Ian reminded, brow furrowing. "Did you not want-?"

"Yes," Thomas put his hand confidently on top of Ian's, "I did. Absolutely." He leaned into make sure that Ian could see the sincerity in his eyes, and was pleased to see some relief reflected in the brown before him. "Ian," he explained as he reached out slowly to cup and stroke the un-injured cheek in his other hand, "you are beautiful..."

Mid-shudder, Ian's eyes flashed wide; and he pulled away—as if the fingers or phrase had actually burned him.

Startled, Thomas held out his hands to show no ill intent, no harm done. "What? I'm sorry—I thought… Are you alright?"

Breathing hard, Ian shook his head, relaxed slightly, and touched his cheek, at first as if recalling the caress, and then wiping it clean. His look had shifted very far away. "I— I— It's just…"

Thomas sat back slightly, giving him space; but decided to push nonetheless as his own eagerness gave way to the realization of another commonality they possibly shared. "Greenhall did that, said that to you; didn't he?"

Ian went instantly flush, looking up in shock at the introduction of that forbidden name and time.

Sorrow and anger whirled through Thomas as he pondered aloud, "That's why he pulled you out of the home, and took you to his; isn't it? Why you didn't share a bed there ' _at first'_? Why he was so quick to leave you to die on the roadside, and why you thought you deserved it the night we met? Why you don't want to go back to any of it? Because of what they gave you to him, for him to do."

Ian just stared back, unable to deny it, and just as unable to understand how Thomas seemed to know it. And the confusion in his face was quickly being replaced by a terror that it was going to happen again—that he'd been promised a brighter future, then lured alone to an isolated space, touched in ways he was expected to tolerate, and even reciprocate, to pay back.

Repulsed by that idea, Thomas turned to focus his roiling fury and memories on the fire, keeping his hands unfisted and visible to be clear he would not be demanding the same. "I know, Ian, because I've been there: I've had a 'noble' man tempt me with more than I had, with more than I was, even with a physical connection I had yearned for, for so long… Only to get burned when his promises weren't real, when the needs were different, and one-sided."

He laughed to realize what he had almost seemed to repeat those crimes on someone else, someone who deserved far better, and who also blamed himself for the worst he had received in life. Thomas continued to explain, hoping to reassure Ian, and remind himself, "And that time, and many others, I've blamed myself, _hated_ myself for these... uncommon feelings I have. And I've read divine punishment into each and every time that acting on them has come back to haunt me.

"So you must know," he whispered to the figure that had remained still and silent through his confession, "there was _nothin'_ about you that invited or approved his attention or actions then; nothin' that deserved my interest now. It wasn't you; and so you've _nothin'_ to be sorry or punished for. That night you got away, when he threw you away, you could have let them finish you on the road, or laid down in the woods along the way, or gone back onto the lawn to die after Lady Edith saw you.

"But you didn't; you got yourself found, because you wanted to live. You _are_ beautiful, yes; but you are also good, and smart, and strong. And maybe… maybe I sensed the pain, as well as the power in you, hoping they both might be in me too. But whatever else, and whatever the reason, in that moment and now, I want _so badly_ to spare you that pain…, to help you be happy."

He looked over at Ian, his eyes raining down his cheeks, hoping he had read the signs right, and not just projected his horrible experiences on the younger man; and also hoping he was wrong—that Ian hadn't gone through anything like what he had just supposed. "Because, I genuinely care about you, Ian; I like you. Maybe more than I should, and maybe more than you do me. But I hope you've seen that I don't expect _anything_ ; that you don't _owe_ me anything. And I don't want anything you're not honestly interesting in giving, not honestly feeling yourself."

A tear ran down Ian's clear cheek as he held Thomas once more in his inscrutable yet soul-searching gaze. Finally, he swallowed and asked hoarsely, "Your father found you with another boy, didn't he? That's why he put you out."

His insightful mirror turned back on him unexpectedly, Thomas sobbed quietly, and could only nod and marvel at the kindred soul that had found him too.

Ian leaned the distance between them, thumbed away Thomas' tear trails, and pulled them both up onto their knees so they could hold one another in the glow of their honest, vulnerable and strengthened connection.

As tears dried and bodies warmed, Ian slowly traced his face along Thomas' jaw and across his cheek, until they were nose to nose. Smiling as freely as he had since arriving, he closed his eyes and pressed their lips together, sealing the bond, and signaling an even deeper beginning.

* * *

_**Monday, 11 November 2012** _

"Seriously, are you feelin' alright?" O'Brien demanded suddenly, her piercing gaze focused on him, as if trying to recognize an unfamiliar face on someone she knew well. "You've had on that grin since you first came down this morning."

"Can't a man be happy for once?"

"Not _this_ man; not in _this_ house," she snapped. "Not ever! Unless… you've got somethin' workin', haven't ya?" she smiled at the realization. "C'mon; tell us, then."

"No, I don't," he smiled too sweetly, looking away as he exhaled a plume into the chilly air.

"You may be a good liar to some; but I know you, Thomas Barrow. You've either got a sure fire idea to start, or a payoff about to land. And I don't need to be a part of it; but I aim to know what's put that grin on your face, and spring in your step."

He smiled back at her guiltily, letting her know she was correct, of course. But inside, he knew he couldn't let her know the real reason for his sudden jump in happiness. And through his whole person, he knew she would not stop until she knew; she never forgot, or forgave, or let go. So he had to tell her something that she would accept as honest enough, without being so appealing as to keep her interested.

So, "Lady Edith," he blurted. "You know how obsessed she's been with finding her 'ghost'… She's asked me to help track down some police leads Mrs Crawley's told her about, using my contacts in York and London. All hush-hush, given how his Lordship feels about it. Well, I think I may have something for her that, if I play it right, could set me up well with all of them. Could be my ticket to the good life…"

She gazed at him with squinted eyes, scrutinizing his story and its delivery, as she held her smoke to one side. Finally, she smirked knowingly, "Dangerous game, that is: working between the Earl and that daughter especially. Careful your playing with 'angels' doesn't get you burned…"


	18. Focus

_**Wednesday, 13 November 1912** _

"Good afternoon, Cousin Isobel. I do hope I'm not imposing on you," Edith smiled as she was shown into the sitting room.

"Not all, my dear; it's always good to see you," Isobel assured. "Molesley, might we have some tea?" As he went to prepare the tray, she motioned Edith to have a seat on the couch. "How are you? And the cook, Mrs Patmore, I believe?"

"Yes, both well; thank you," Edith assured, before quickly using that transition to her reason for the visit, or at rather, its delay. "Given the… excitement after church, I thought it best to wait a few days before coming. Papa seems so easily angered by any mention or reference to anything related. We may be intrigued, and he accuses me of an unhealthy obsession around it; but truly, he seems to harbor his own quick passions about it as well."

"I suppose he must, in some respects," the older woman reflected, "as both a protective father and concerned Earl. An assault at the edge of his village; intruders at or in his home. And you did take a rather dangerous tumble yourself…"

"All without permanent damage that we know of," Edith insisted. "Which is also why I was hoping you might have heard something else through Dr Clarkson, or the police."

"I'm afraid not. It's been a week; and most talk has moved on from the storm. And I'd only happened upon the constable's discussion with the good doctor; neither seeks my advice or keeps me informed directly." _Not that I haven't inquired politely…_

"Well," Edith smiled, and paused as the tea arrived and was served. "I do have something that I think you may be better placed to explore, given your proximity to the village, and my father's… sensitivity."

"Oh?" Isobel realized she'd been drawn back to that tightrope between her own curiosity, shared with the girl, and her promise to Robert at least not to encourage it.

"Well, it's actually a thought from Thomas, the footman who was with us on Saturday. He's been with the family a little more than two years; and, while I don't know much about him, he has had a reputation amongst the staff for being a little… uncharitable and tetchy. But, I must say, he's been most cheerful of late, and more than happy to help me, to help us, with this in particular…

"Anyway, he pulled me aside to share a thought he'd had since our discovery on the road: The ambush must have involved more than one person—just to drag the tree across the lanes, if nothing else. And the thieves must have been based in the village—there's really nothing else about in that direction. It's a good chance our waylayers were from, or at least in, Downton that night."

"That's a very good, if also very troubling, suggestion," Isobel concurred. "I should hope that no one from the village would be involved, as that would mean we have robbers living amongst us. Everyone I've met seems nice enough; but then again, I don't know them all or any very well…"

"And," Edith agreed excitedly, engrossed in her own, if relayed, story. "Thomas also suggested, they likely had a specific, and worthy, target to have braved the weather. Especially given how dreadful the storm had become, to lay a trap and hang about on the unlikely chance that someone else would be foolish enough to follow that specific road at that time, and would be worth all the effort of robbing—seems a bit of a stretch…"

"Indeed," Isobel considered, having wondered on the same point. "I should also suspect that they were somehow confident that a _specific_ traveler would pass that way, that night, despite the weather. And that he would surely have whatever it was they wanted badly enough to risk their comfort, health and freedom."

"But whoever could that be? How could they know that someone would be on that road, that night, in that storm?" Edith's head spun at the enthralling impossibility of it all.

Her cousin sipped her tea, considering that very question, along with how to proceed with both the investigation and her promised unsuccessful chaperoning of it. "I expect the authorities are making headway in tracking down our Manchester-clad victim… Perhaps we could approach from the other direction: identifying these most dedicated Downton bandits."

They shared a wide-eyed look, knowing that was also the more dangerous of the two options.

* * *

_**Saturday, 16 November 1912** _

Almost a week had passed quickly for the footman and his fugitive. Despite their new distance and open affection, they had quickly settled into a daily routine. Thomas spent his days listening for clues while serving the family; and his evenings, slipping additional food out of the house with him. Though losing some precious sleep time to his nightly commute and companionship, he could not have been happier.

Ian too was happy, if less formally busy. He spent his days tidying his secret flat, borrowing firewood from neighboring cottages, and sketching. His eye and miscellaneous scratches were healing nicely, though his shoulder continued to hurt him, and limit the movement in his right arm. Thankfully, he'd originally been left-handed; and switching back from the charity-imposed right- had been fairly easy. Thomas hoped they hadn't put off a doctor's visit too long; but Ian insisted that it was improving, and that the risks of an official record outweighed what the physician might be able to do for him. So, they hoped that the "Wink" nickname might soon be the only vestige of that horrible night.

Thomas was just applying some salve to the roughest of Ian's remaining scabs, and gently inspecting the fading rainbow around the still tender eye. "By next week's half-day off, I think you'll be clear enough to go with me into the village, so long as you keep your cap on."

"You promised me a proper meal in the pub," Ian reminded, slipping a piece of biscuit into Thomas' smile—such snacks, the closest they really been able to come to sharing meal times together. "And even I know I can't sit inside with a hat on…"

"We'll think of somethin'," he was promised, around the sweet being chewed. "The fresh box of food might do you well here, but that new suit is meant to be worn beyond these walls." The smile that double gift earned him was worth the cost of the custom outfit, and the coming hassle of ensuring Ian wasn't recognized on their outing.

"Am I good?" Ian asked as the ministrations seemed to have been completed.

"So much more than just 'good,'" Thomas smiled, leaning in to relish a deep kiss and contented nuzzle.

Almost distracted, Ian's grin returned with a glow that pulled them both from the blissful daze. "I have somethin' for you." He stepped over to the makeshift desk nearest the now-covered window, and began shuffling through sheafs of papers scattered across it.

Thomas stood, wiped the medicine off his hands, and joined him in looking at papers covered in scribbles of varying sizes and subjects. In addition to marveling at their creativity and skill, he also regretted Ian had so much time and so little else to do given his recuperative quarantine.

"Here," said the artist, pulling a smaller piece from the piles, and leading Thomas back toward the light of the fire. "It took me a while to get one I didn't hate; but until I can do somethin' more to earn my keep… You'd asked for this." He turned the paper over, and handed over the present.

On it, he'd drawn a small, simple pencil portrait of his own face, smiling and appearing to be looking slightly upward, through a mop of graphite and parchment curls.

"I imagine I look somethin' like that from where you stand," Ian smiled in reality, a bit embarrassed at the vanity it seemed to him. "And I know you can't put it up anywheres; so I made it small enough to go in a book or drawer, outta the way."

Thomas just kept glancing back and forth between the sketch and the model, both before him in matching, uncanny stereo.

Ian's face clouded at the silent staring, "If you don't like it-"

"I love it; it's perfect, of course," Thomas cut him off immediately. "And it won't be going in any cupboard; it'll fit in the breast pocket of any jacket I'm wearing. A reminder. Thank you." He once again wrapped his arms around the larger version of the imperfectly angelic figure, and added another to the legion of head-top pecks he'd bestowed in just the last few days.

With Ian nestled comfortably against him, he marveled once again at how he was only keeping track of what joy this man brought him, when he counted everyone else around him in terms of the debts they owed him. It was unnerving really, as well as exhilarating; and only added only to the enchantment he was happily under.

But, he needed to pop the bubble a little this late night, for the longer term security of his- of _their_ happiness. "Ian," he said, leaning back enough to be able to make eye contact, "speakin' of visiting the village and of sharin' sketches, I have an… uncomfortable favor to ask. Can you draw me the men who attacked you?"

"You promised to leave it be!" Ian stiffened and looked angry, which was an improvement over the fear previous references had invoked. "Why would you need to know what they looked like, but to go lookin' for them?"

"I don't _want_ to; but the police know someone was attacked on the road; they found your jacket and shoe," he explained as Ian pulled away, and began to fidget in place. "And, because she's seen you twice now, plus the cook, the Earl's daughter is actively tryin' to figure out who you are. I intend to help them all focus on those who _did_ the ambushin', in hopes they'll pay less attention to who _was_ ambushed. I can't stop them all from investigatin'; but I can influence where they're lookin'. I'm hopin' we can let your ghost get his justice, without bein' sought after himself…"

Ian's face raced with worry, as he considered the request and its strategy.

Thomas stepped close, turned Ian's face up to him and asked, "Trust me?" Seeing the concern waver, and the doubt melt a little, he added a warmer confidence with a kiss.

Reluctant to remember or revive the interactions of that night, Ian pursed his lips, but nodded his agreement.

Successful without inflicting too much suffering, Thomas started to step away toward the garment box, "But not tonight… C'mon, I'll help you try this on."

But Ian had laced his hands behind Thomas' back, and demanded a further distraction from the previous displeasure with a quick recovering smile, "First, you have to help me get this borrowed set off…"


	19. Fishing

_**Monday, 18 November 1912** _

"Sit anywhere you like, mam," the barman called to her, noting she seemed unsure how to proceed beyond stepping inside The Dog and Duck.

Feeling it best not to alight at the bar itself—both unladylike, and too obvious for her purposes, she chose a table near the bar, but off the direct line between it and the front door. Glancing about as she took her seat and removed her gloves, she didn't recognize the few faces in the place; and if they knew her, they were doing well not to show it. It was to be a delicate balance, this visit; her status could be off-putting, or even mildly scandalous in the less classy of the two village pubs, but hopefully also brought some deference to her inquiries.

"It's Mrs Crawley, isn't it?" her greeter asked politely, having come around to give her table an extra wipe, and her, extra attention. Seeing her startled by the foreknowledge, he explained, "Beggin' your pardon; we've not met. It's just that your arrival in the village has been a matter of understandable interest, given how little excitement we get out here. You're more than welcome, of course."

"Well," Isobel stalled, not pleased that her reputation had preceded her, and that she'd not been able to make the decision on whether to introduce herself. But, the man's prompt hospitality and rather blunt backstory suggested that she could and should be direct herself. "That is very kind, Mister…?"

"Hislop, mam. Benny Hislop. This here's my establishment."

"And a fine place it is indeed, Mr Hislop," she smiled, looking around admiringly. "As I settle into the village, I am trying to meet my new neighbours, and take in all the local flavors. I'm only sorry I haven't been by sooner."

"That's to be understood, mam, as I expect the House staff take good care of you…" He knew her business to be sure.

"And thus have earned their time off, leaving me in need of a quality midday meal," she explained, appealing to his. "And the postmistress spoke most highly of your fish and chips–a hearty meal for such a cold autumn's day."

"A fine choice, mam. And to drink?"

She glanced around obviously, and leaned in to share an open secret to secure their bond, "If I can count on your discretion, Mr Hislop, I think that would go well with a half-pint of stout?"

Having been concerned his menu and cellars would not be up to her standards, he was shocked, and pleased, at the everyman tastes of the new noble. He liked this one! With a wink back, he assured, "'Twould be my pleasure."

With a smile and nod, he headed back toward the bar, saying welcome to two regulars who entered as he passed. When the barmaid approached them shortly thereafter, it seemed clear that he had made a particular point of engaging the unexpected guest himself.

For that reason along with her additional agenda, she engaged him warmly as he brought her drink, and then her lunch. Having received them, she then took her time to enjoy them—as they were quite good, and thus to prolong the opportunity for conversation with this well-placed, and apparently well-liked public house proprietor.

As the late lunch crowd cleared, and she finally finished, she settled her bill and complimented him on the meal and hospitality.

"You're most welcome, mam. Though, I imagine you might miss some of the bustle and conveniences of the big city."

"Occasionally," she confided. "But I must confess, the people here can be considerably more friendly. And I am very much enjoying the fresh air and quiet as compared to Manchester. Though, I must admit that storm on Guy Fawkes' Night was frightful. Is that sort of weather common in the area?" _Bait on hook._

"We can have some strong fronts come through; but that one _was_ of rare might."

"Do you find that business lessens, as people are less likely to go out in it, or increases, as people take advantage of the weather to stay in, and enjoy themselves?" _Fish approaches hook._

He waved over the barmaid to take away the dishes as he stood to chat, "Mostly it keeps people home, I'm afraid; safer for all, I suppose. And most boarders with us stay in, as there's not much else to do on any evening in the village, for them just passing through."

"That night especially, I imagine!" she suggested. _Wiggle it a little…_

"So you'd think," he laughed, before turning more gossipy, "But we had a few visitors that night we'd expected to stay in. But they got a message, and headed out quick into the worst of the storm. City folk…! Oh, no offense, 'course."

 _Caught!_ She laughed herself entirely un-insulted, "Oh my! None taken; but how do you mean 'city folks'?"

"Well, I'm just presuming Manchester, based on their accents. None of us know them; and haven't seen them since… But, they paid their tab; so I can naught but wish them well."

"How odd," Isobel agreed cheerfully, before again leaning in to this newfound confidant, "As do I, of course. But you know, I did hear that there may have been some sort of accident on the north road that night. I understand the police believe someone may have been injured; something about a fallen tree… I was trained as a nurse; and the idea of anyone being wounded and unwell…" She fanned herself in demonstration of her delicacy, as the barmaid wiped the tables around them.

"That's right Christian of you, mam. And I can't speak to what happened," he leaned in to share, "But you're not the only persons concerned. The police came here as a matter of fact, asking about any guests or suspicious persons that night—but I could only share what I just told you… And that footman from the Abbey; seems he was worried about some friends who might have been passing through... Wish I could calm everyone with some good news; but I only know what I know!"

 _And the fish offered her a morsel in return… Thomas?!_ "Well, I appreciate your cooperation and compassion, as well as your cuisine!"

He beamed at her use of the fancy term to describe his country menu, forgetting the old storm news immediately. "Too kind, mam!"

"Well, I should be getting on." She began to stand, prompting him to assist with the chair. "Why thank you, Mr Hislop. Just one more reason I shall have to return again soon for more exquisite fare and conversation."

"Any time, Mrs Crawley," he all but bowed. "Welcome again to Downton, and any time to our humble establishment."

Still smiling at his simple charm, and the information she had gleaned from it, she hadn't gotten very far up the street, when the barmaid came running after her.

"Mam? Mrs Crawley? Mam, you dropped your glove," she explained as Isobel turned to her.

"So I did; how clumsy of me. It's so kind of you to bring it out to me. Here," she fished a few coins from her purse. "For your troubles, and for my taking up the table and so much of your employer's time today."

The young woman glanced about, as such tips were rare, and the transaction might seem odd on the open street especially. "Thank you, mam. It were no trouble."

Isobel began to turn, when the woman continued, "And mam? I heard you asking charitably after the men who went out into the storm. I was touched by your worry for them and all; and just wanted to let you know that they was well. Just a little wet for the rain."

"Oh?" _This fish had just jumped into her boat entirely of its own accord._ "That _is_ comforting to know. You knew them?" Isobel smiled motherly.

"Know them, mam; one is my brother, Willy. When their business here didn't work out, they headed back to Leeds that night. The roads were a bit rough; but he sent me a letter that he was safe and well back home."

"I am glad, …?" she stuck her hand out to pat the girl's, and call her by name.

"Tessie, mam."

"Tessie. You've brought my heart much comfort, beyond a good lunch for the rest of me. Now, I should let you get back, before the good Mr Hilsop worries after you. Thank you again, on all counts."

"My pleasure, mam," Tessie grinned, and headed back with the good graces of, and a little change from, the approachable new aristocrat in the village.

Returning to her walk home, Isobel considered what all she gained for the time and money invested today, beyond a genuinely good meal.


	20. Trimmed

The clear, crisp day had turned cloudy by evening, with another winter storm biding its time to drop a wet blanket across the county at any moment. Amidst a true countdown to Christmas beginning, the weather's turn did seem to mirror the Earl's tenuous temper of late—as questions about an heir persisted, relations of some family members with the newly come Crawleys remained rough, and an afternoon courtesy call from the police inspector had not provided him any reassurance about whatever they'd spoken briefly and privately.

For his own part, always anxious to get out of the house and to Ian, Thomas nonetheless felt the gloom outside was fitting, as he'd felt guilty the past two days. Ian had grudgingly agreed to sketch his attackers from the road—had trusted Thomas' interest enough to pick at that scab. But he'd suffered terrible nightmares the two nights since—waking them both several times with shouts and starts in his sleep. Despite, or perhaps because they'd clung to each other on the meagerly padded floor, Ian had wrenched his bad shoulder in one particularly energetic outburst. And there seemed only so much pain or memory that powder, a shot of borrowed brandy and an embrace of strong arms could relieve.

Hopefully, he'd finished the sketches today, and could be done with those faces in every sense. Just as his patient protector was ready to try engaging them…

"Everythin' alright, Thomas?" Daisy had asked with her personal mix of glee and anxiety, as she set down the bowl beside him once grace had been said.

If he hadn't known her delivery was largely a function of her blatant crush on him, he would have found it creepy. As it were, it was simply annoying, especially when several heads turned his way. That meant she wasn't the only one who had noticed his mood or was interested in his response. "Well enough, waiting on dinner," he cast a forced smile around the ring.

"You do seem less happy than you have the past few days," Anna concurred impishly.

The younger, junior staff all looked obviously curious. The older, senior staff just looked at him.

He knew the observations were correct, as his causing Ian pain had undercut his recent euphoria at having Ian in the first place. But that they'd noticed either extreme for his swing between them, meant he needed to be more careful. More like the Thomas they knew and expected, even if they didn't like him all that much. So, he reverted to form, "Well, if you're all taking your happy cues from the likes of me, that doesn't speak well for any of you… Though, I'll bear in mind this surprising power I have over you."

That he might have any influence over them, didn't sit well with anyone at the table. Their various blanches, blushes and averted eyes suggested he'd well reminded them to mind their own business.

"Potatoes?" he offered, having served himself to begin their true reason for gathering.

O'Brien joined him in a smirk at the point made, and also the point scored.

* * *

It was raining by the time he slipped out of the house at the end of the night. And while not hard, it was nonetheless steady enough to wet him along the way, as sound and light played out above him.

Slipping out of the drizzle after knocking between peels of thunder, Thomas was a little surprised when Ian latched onto him, wet coat and all, when a particularly loud crack shook them just as the door closed.

"Hey," he smiled, pleased and concerned. "Everythin' alright?" He made to run his hand across the curly head at his chin, only to feel a rough calico of... felt and wool instead. "Ian?!" he pulled away, squinting to see the face and get an answer in the pitch black.

"I'm OK," the familiar voice tried to seem more confident that it sounded. "Really. Come upstairs."

The good hand took his, and led them quickly up into the firelit room they'd secretly shared for just over a week. Dropping the satchel of clothes he'd brought with him, and without bothering to strip off his dripping coat, Thomas pulled Ian to where he could get a good look at him.

The younger man winced at the unintentional tug on his bad arm, and looked up at him with the discomfort Thomas had heard in his voice. "I told ya; I'm OK. My shoulder's been botherin' me; and the storm's got me a little… skittish, is all. It reminds me…"

 _Of that last bad weather night_ , Thomas didn't need him to explain. However, his own shock was over the unexpected lack of, "Your hair?!"

Ian smirked knowingly, as Thomas spun him around to see how exceedingly lop-sided and uneven his mane had become. "I know you like me curls; and I'm sorry. But my face is clearin' up, but this mop would still give me right away. You said as much… So I tried to cut it; but once I'd done this side, I couldn't get me other arm up far enough…" He nodded to the right arm he was again holding close against his side. "I think maybe it's the storm."

Distracted for a moment from the botched shearing, Thomas glanced at the tightly covered window, "An ache is one thing; but if it really hurts to lift a pair of scissors…" He looked back with worry on his face.

"It's better now that you're here," Ian smiled, and shifted up on his tiptoes for a delayed kiss of welcome from his beau.

Leaning into the connection, they breathed in one another for a moment, forgetting all else until the taller recalled he was also the wetter. He peeled himself away, grabbing a quick departing peck, and turned to change. "You didn't have to cut your hair; we could have coloured it."

"This was faster and easier, and must be less noticeable than a headful of curls in any colour!"

"Where you've left off makes it more noticeable actually, thank you very much," Thomas corrected as he donned his pyjamas.

"It'll grow back… And I was only tryin' to get so I could stop havin' to hide away here, makin' you do everythin' for me."

"You just want to get out to that pub dinner I promised…"

Ian smiled guiltily, as Thomas walked back over and picked at the shambles, "So you'll fix it for me then; so it won't look so bad?"

"You're hard to resist, even lookin' like a moss cleaven rock. So, I _will_ trim your terrible topiary… on two conditions."

"Which are?"

"First, that I do it tomorrow; tonight, I am knackered." Weariness was evident on his face, now that the surprise and concern over Ian's ills and frills had passed. The late night and early morning stealth was wearing on him; but was so worth the good company with whom he got to spend the time between. "I would just like to knock out with my beautiful Wink…"

"And second?" Ian asked, guiding him to lie down on the bedroll before the fire.

"I'd like to send some of your sketches off to some contacts in London."

Ian bristled warily, settling Thomas's head into his lap, intent on soothing him to sleep while keeping his injured arm upright.

"We have to find you somethin' to do once we _can_ get you outta here, bald or not. And until you're able to do some labour with that arm, your talent with paper and pencil is our best lead to gainful employment."

"But won't that let them know where…"

"I won't say who they're by or where he is. Just get them shown to some folks who might be able to get them purchased for publication, or maybe attract some commissions by the new, mystery artist…"

Ian had stopped running his fingers through Thomas' hair, his face wrinkling around the idea that anyone would pay for his scribbles. Or that the transactions would somehow become a trail back to people he'd left behind. He'd need a job, to be sure; but drawing? And publishing?

"Ian," Thomas interrupted confidently, reaching up to cup his hand on the thoughtful cheek, "Trust me. This is for the good; and I won't let anythin' bad come of it."

"Promise?"

"So help my beautiful hair," he grinned up into the cloud of worry.

"This pub meal had best be amazin'," Ian smiled back, and bent down for his goodnight kiss.

"'Night."

Wanting to relish this chance to cradle and comfort the man who'd done so much for him in just a week, Ian stroked the cheeks and admittedly well-styled coif before him, as Thomas quickly drifted off to sleep. Ian could make up rest during the day if he needed to, and would try not to worry more now if he could.

* * *

_**Wednesday, 20 November 1912** _

"Thomas?!" the upbeat voiced called from behind.

"Mrs Crawley?" he turned with a smile, snapping into his up-the-stairs posture and pronunciation, and blocking the cylinder he'd been addressing at the far end of the counter. "Good day to you, mam."

"And to you. I hadn't expected to see you in the village today," she all but asked.

But unlike most people, he didn't think she meant her statement as a challenge to his being away from the Abbey. And unlike most days, and with most people, he didn't take it as one. Still, and not that she hadn't always been uniquely human in her engagement with the staff, his business was none of hers.

"I'm in town again for Mrs Patmore, the cook. We're looking forward to having you, Mr Crawley and the Dowager Countess for dinner on Friday."

"I know any extra guests only increase the work for you; so that's especially kind of you to say."

Even if an expected nicety, Thomas appreciated her acknowledging the impact her enjoyable evening would have on him and his colleagues. And they smiled at one another in that mutual appreciation for an awkward moment.

Isobel blinked first, and looked down at his project on the counter, "And so, I'm sorry to interrupt and to bother you with yet another request. I know Lady Edith didn't leave you much choice but to be pulled into our… inquiries."

His faced dropped even more, as she stepped a little closer. "I also know you've continued asking questions since our trip the woods, and that Lady Edith did _not_ put you up to that ongoing investigation." Though still smiling, her eyes suggested she was hoping for an explanation for his persistence.

"Downton is my home as well…" he began to explain, not untruthfully.

She held up her hand, "I'm sorry. I wasn't demanding a justification… I _also_ visited the Grantham Arms, and the Dog and Duck," she volunteered, to make it clear that she was calling him in, not out. "And I wondered whether we might stop duplicating one another's work, by working together."

"Together?" he swallowed.

"Yes, just you and me… You, Lady Edith and I all are all interested in the recent roadside attack we _know_ happened. Edith having had her visions and seen the evidence we have; and myself at the request of the Earl to chaperone his daughter's safety. As the police work on identifying the likely victim through discarded clothes, you and I have instead focused on the brigands. So, whatever your motivations, I would ask that we communicate, if not cooperate, to move that agenda along—without involving the rest of the family…" She somehow managed both an expression of geniality and mischief.

Her bluntness was both welcome and unusual; and his look must have communicated his wariness of that candidness despite his effort to remain composed.

"Thomas, I'm not giving you an order," Isobel continued to assure. "Rather, I'm asking for your help in resolving this mystery that clearly appeals to us both. And I hope you'll agree that this subject matter is hardly the place for a young woman or the local gentry."

He smiled back at her, immensely curious, "As we're discussing it, may I ask after _your_ interest in an apparent trap and beating?"

She laughed, not surprised that he caught or questioned the apparent dual standard she was applying to the women involved. "I shall thank you for not pointing out that I am neither as young, nor noble, as my cousin. But, I do share your concern for Downton as my home, as well as a greater liberty than the Granthams to 'get dirty' in the pursuit…"

"What specifically are you suggesting?" he smiled back, accepting that she seemed to understand the local politics, whatever her underlying criminal interest.

She could tell he was smart and wary—good qualities for this game; and so she needed to make the first tangible show of being a worthy colleague and confidant. "That we compare notes, so to speak. For example, in _my_ conversations with the local pubmasters, I've discovered that there were two noteworthy sets of visitors to the village on Guy Fawkes' Night: One party, genteel, continued on after dinner despite the weather; and the other, a rougher trio, also headed out into the storm unexpectedly. Coincidence?" Her expression made her opinion clear.

But, while trying to build the partnership, she hadn't really offered him anything he didn't already know. Like her, he knew there had been two groups at the two pubs that night, and that they'd apparently both left at about the same time, despite the storm. From his contacts on the respective staffs, he also knew that a boy had been paid to take a message from the nicer pub group, to those at the less savory establishment. And certainly unlike Mrs Crawley, he had actual sketches of the latter group; and knew the actual name of the nobleman whose car had been attacked by the tipped off or instructed roughians. He also knew who had suffered most in the incident that followed, and who had haunted Downton during a prolonged refuge there—something he expected no one else could do more than worry over.

"Interesting," Thomas said, non-committally. He considered what she was offering, not just in terms of information itself; and also what she expected in return. How much would she want to know, knowing he could not and would not expose Ian, much less his involvement with the young man? How much could he share without interfering with his own plans for those responsible? Would she seriously keep Lady Edith in the dark about what they learned, and how would that affect his relations with his employer? And, could she help with that balance, or with his intentions to make things right for Ian, in every sense?

Isobel must have seen the gears turning in his head, and understood his watchful silence to be doubt. Or insufficient motivation; perhaps she'd over-estimated his personal interest in this, and needed to offer some additional incentive. Being observant herself, she seized on the only thing she knew about him beyond his place of employment: what she had glanced quickly on the counter before he'd turned to block her view. "I see that you're posting some sketches of some kind? While I cannot claim to have a trained eye for art, I do have some connections in those circles, should they perhaps be of use to your… project."

His eyes narrowed realizing she'd seen and surmised his off-duty exploit; more than surprised, however, he was impressed. She could be a useful partner, on all fronts, if he were careful. "They aren't mine. This is for a friend," he smiled, knowing it was useless to argue over the fact of what she'd seen.

"Of course," she smiled back. "The offer still stands; both offers do," she reminded, ready to give him some time to understand the benefits of the alliance. From what she'd learned from Edith's story of getting him to help that first Saturday, he _could_ be motivated with vinegar. But she sensed he was at least as amenable to honey. "Consider them?" she nodded, and turned to check in with her postmistress friend.

"The valet sent the note to The Dog and Duck," Thomas called after her quietly, clarifying his interest in seeing what else she knew, could find out, or do for him and Ian. "Not the gentleman, but his man. He seemed surprised that they would be continuing in the storm, and sent a message from the Grantham Arms, perhaps without his master's knowledge. I don't know the connection, beyond that the valet was also the driver of the car we know was attacked later on the road."

Neither had shown all their cards; but it was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the longer than expected gap since last new chapter. This one a little longer for the wait. And now, we're moving toward the more... public phase of the affair. More soon!


	21. Fuel

_**Thursday, 21 November 1912** _

"Edith?" Mary asked in the moment's pause after the previous dinner conversation subject had been exhausted, "I noticed that you received another stack of post this afternoon…"

Everyone at the table knew that the tone and look meant much more than a casual observation or passing curiosity. The eldest Crawley daughter had clearly just dragged in a large pot of no good, taken off its lid, and begun stirring.

Stuttering only just perceptibly in spooning her soup, Edith reinforced her pleasantest smile and fired back, "Perhaps if you were friendlier to people, more would deign to write you."

William nearly grinned across the room at Thomas, as both snapped to more attentiveness, if not attention.

Carson blanched.

Lady Cora smirked.

Lord Robert tried not to roll his eyes, while realizing he had been curious about the unusual number of letters Edith had been arriving over the past week or so.

Ignoring it all, Mary pushed on as she dabbed the corner of her all-but-smirking mouth. "Sudden greetings from Gordon, Grey, Gillingham… Are you working your way methodically through your address book, or just _Burke's_?"

"Carson?" Edith redirected, without hiding all the fire in her voice or face; but not caring, "Since my dear sister has become so frail as to be upset by the mere _idea_ of someone other than herself receiving more than the occasional letter, will you please instruct the staff to deliver all future correspondence to me in private? I should strongly suggest the rest of the family show a similar concession to her fragile self-esteem."

The head of the household actually clinked his cutlery on his plate as he made the intended connection to the cause of the upsurge in mail. "Edith, I thought I had been _quite_ clear that the subject was to be left alone," he said tersely, glaring side-eyed at the table, rather than so boldly at any one member of the family around it. His uncouthly upright, if now quiet, spoon quivered in show of his anger.

"Actually, you ordered that we should not _speak_ of it, papa. And so I haven't spoken of it since, even if I have _written_ in relation to it." While daring to contradict her father publically, she kept her voice calm. Even when she charged her sister with the same offense. "And it's actually Mary who brought it up just now, not I…"

"Edith…," Cora shushed, less chastising her, and more trying to head off any further irritation to the reddening Robert.

Sybil squirmed in amused nervousness, much as the breathless staff wanted to.

"Enough!" Robert barked, tossing his spoon into the nearly full bowl. "Carson, next course!"

As the butler and footmen burst into action, Robert's glare circled the table, face to face. "Not that it's _any_ concern of anyone in this house, but the constable who stopped by earlier this week did so to let me know they'd closed their investigation into the 'mystery' of Guy Fawkes' Night. It seems they were able to track the odd shoe and jacket to a gentleman outside Manchester who explained he'd dropped the items fussing with his stuck car the night of the storm. The police have encouraged him not to travel in such weather, and not to litter so in the future, given the drama it has caused. We searched this house thoroughly and found no one, because there was no one harmed or wandering that night. So, let me clarify again: This matter is closed; completely, finally."

Taking a breath, perhaps his first in the whole monologue, he spoke more calmly, if no less absolutely. "Edith, you will destroy your now useless lists and stop bothering good people in _any_ manner on this pointless matter. And, Mary, I will advise you not to cross my instructions again, even for so allegedly magnanimous a motive as to implicate a sister who is doing likewise."

Thankfully handy and ready, the fish course made its appearance, giving everyone something else to focus their attention on.

But the Earl wasn't quite finishing dishing out his own verbal intermezzo. "Sybil, do sit up straight. And, Cora, pray give us something less ridiculous to occupy the remainder of our lovely dinner."

Certainly shocked and almost insulted to be the final stop on his carousel of rebuke, Cora swallowed, and sputtered out. "Well… I—I've heard that we may have seen the last of the Wheelers' Christmas parties at Canningford Grange…"

* * *

"Thomas?" Edith called him back as the others moved through the main hall. "I fear that I have been too harsh on Lady Mary."

He didn't have time to look surprised at that suggestion before her gaze turned icy as that same sibling tittered happily as she passed into the drawing room, "But in case not, I should hate for her to feel undervalued by the Royal Mail. So, if you could please gather for me, discretely—perhaps in small bundles, every newspaper and magazine in the house?"

"Every one, milady?" he confirmed.

"Yes. And any that arrive in the next week or so. They're simply brimming with send-aways and samples lists; if Mary is bitter over the quantity of letters I'm getting, we'll have to ensure that she isn't overlooked by a _single_ available correspondent…"

Thomas couldn't help but smile at the petty, if on point, intention on sending away for every offer in Mary's name. He was liking this middle sister more all the time. But… "How thoughtful of you, milady. And… if I understand correctly from Mrs Crawley, you'd drawn up a list of noble titles and families whose names match the monogram on the handkerchief? That's to whom you're writing?"

She caught her smile quickly, thrilled at the reminder of having a confidant in the house; but cautious given her father's expanded prohibition on the subject. And so, she nodded matter of factly, and let him continue on the subject of his own choosing.

"I would be happy to see to the destruction of that list… With a glance at it on the way to the fire, I can see whether I might have contacts in any of the houses or areas you'd not heard from. Another, final angle on the inquiry, as I doubt his Lordship will share the name of the gentleman the police found, if he even knows it; and we know there was much more to that evening than a mud-stuck car."

The glimmer of excitement and guilt on her face indicated he'd struck the desired balance between their being dutiful to the Earl's instructions, and their continued pursuit of their clandestine sleuthing. She agreed, "His Lordship will want a cigar after that meal. So I'll just go up now, and bring everything down to you in front of him-"

"Actually," he interrupted respectfully, aware that they both needed to move on with their expected duties this evening, "he may just set fire to it all himself with matches handy. Perhaps wait until he's moved on, and then bring it to me as we all break for the night. I'll ensure there are many witness to my burning it after I've had a quick look…"

She smiled and nodded appreciatively, both at his wise suggestion, and more generally his wily presence. While Mary could obviously be malicious, she was a rival in this household, not a partner. And Edith's own mischief was so much easier, and more fun, when shared.

* * *

While Lady Edith had been writing every family on her substantial list of noble "G" titles and surnames, Thomas needed only see the full catalog briefly—on the short walk down from the main story-to identify the one relevant name: "Greenhalgh."(1) Not quite spelled as he'd assumed from Ian's mention of it, but unmistakable and unique among the others. And not one she'd written to, as the family had no connection to the old, minor baron; so this lead had no more knowledge that he was known, than his apparently successful ruse to the local constabulary.

With this confirmed focus in mind, Thomas marched down to the servants' hall, asked the heads of staff to join him, and tossed Edith's list and stack of related correspondence into the fireplace as others watched. "Mr Carson, if you could please let his Lordship know that some good has come from that wicked, wet evening…"

"And whatever might that be?" the surprised butler asked through his eyebrows.

"Our evenin' just got a little warmer for the fire's fuel…," he smiled, rubbing his hands together over the hungry flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Not an actual peerage, this is the name of a long-ruined castle outside Garstang, Wyre, Lancastershire, northeast of Manchester.


	22. Public

_**Friday, 22**_ _**November 1912** _

"Mrs Crawley," the physician stood as she was shown into his office at the Cottage Hospital.

"Dr Clarkson," she smiled back, accepting his wave to the chair across his desk. "So kind of you to make time to see me, especially unexpected."

"I'm happy to, of course," he assured, sitting only once she had taken her seat. "Is everything alright? We could move to the exam—"

"Oh no, thank you. There's no need for that. I'm well enough, I suppose," she seemed to dither. "I was passing by, and really just stopped in to say 'hello.'"

They sat pleasantly smiling at one another, basking in her quest completed.

"Not that it isn't lovely to see you…," Clarkson broached his busy schedule delicately, "But are you _sure_ there isn't something…? I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to people just dropping by the hospital without some concern… of a medical nature."

"Well that is most unfortunate for everyone, Doctor, given your experience and expertise. But, today, I am hale of body. Thank you."

Another awkward silence, as he nodded his pleasure at her well-being.

"Though I suppose…," she glanced over her shoulder nervously at the closed office door.

 _And… we have it at last_ , the Doctor nodded without moving.

Her calm seemed to slide away as she confessed her non-physical woe. "…I must admit more than a little concern, over the as of yet unresolved assault on the north road. One almost expects to hear of such activity in the large cities; but so near here… And myself having only just arrived to Downton as a lone widow, and the apparent subject of no small discussion in the village… With only two staff in the house, neither much younger than myself…."

Clarkson tried to put on his most calming expression and tone, as he tried to halt the growing flood of anxiety from the new, nearly noble. "Mrs Crawley, I can assure that you needn't worry yourself…"

"That's very kind of you to say, Dr Clarkson," she continued, her pace of sharing not letting up in the least. "But, we both know that it's what you're _expected_ to say… And my concern isn't just for myself. As I believe you may have heard, there was quite the… reaction at the Abbey to initial reports. Not just amongst the young Ladies, mind you; but some of the staff as well. And being a good father and master, His Lordship has firmly forbidden any mention of the matter, so as not to prolong the worry. However, people are rightly afraid," she grimaced appropriately, "And I hope you'll forgive my appearing to criticize his decision… But we all know how all-consuming forbidden fruit can be, and how badly it is likely to end."

His expression fell somewhere between sympathy and discomfort, understanding how the newcomer must feel, while not wishing to agree with her at the expense of their Earl.

She took a deep breath, as if bracing for another list of burdens the situation placed on her and her kin; but instead she seemed to calm. "And while quick assurances and stoic silence have their place, Doctor, as with a physical illness, simply making nice or ignoring a malady of the mind entirely doesn't actually help. Rather, I think this understandable anxiety calls for a little less darkness, and a little more fresh air and light, don't you?"

He paled, and swallowed noticeably.

Turning from client to counselor, Isobel placed her hand on his desk, as if to share the reassuring confidence she now expressed. "I understand that you and the constable are on good professional terms; cordial really. I wonder whether he might have shared with you the specifics that recently closed his investigation, and whether you might share that resolution with me. Of course, I'll not share the details with the girls, or let His Lordship know I know, much less where I learned it. But I would _so_ appreciate your confidence—doctor to nurse, physician to fretful patient—just to give this old woman, a stranger to the town and alone all the week, some peace of mind for herself; and so that she can more honestly reassure her kin at the manor."

 _Well, well_ , he thought, _she's re-made the police matter into a medical one, and set me up to be the bad healer if I don't share. But… she's also given me the space to do that without actually crossing his Lordship; and the constable's findings weren't scandalous, when properly edited, or fear-heightening; quite the opposite, in fact._

So, he shared, "I do apologize that my reticence to involve you in such affairs has instead added to your ill ease, Mrs Crawley. Honestly, I had not considered that you would have any _interest_ in such a disturbing situation; but I can certainly see where it was concerning for exactly that reason. So, please let me reassure you, honestly, that all our original worries were for naught; there was no attack or crime—barely an accident in fact."

She looked slightly calmer, but still very curious. "Oh?"

He continued, "The police were able to track the shoe and jacket you'd heard about, back to an elderly Mancunian gentleman who had passed through Downton on the night of the storm. When presented with the found items, he explained that he had made the unfortunate decision to press on in their journey that night; and that just beyond town, his car had become mired near a fallen tree. He and his valet were forced to use some gifts intended for his nephew as tyre traction and to dry off."

"But wasn't there blood?"

"It would seem, rather than the feared assault, the driver had simply cut his hand while working, which explained the stained jacket... Once free, they abandoned the damaged and soiled items on the spot; the shoe must have been carried off by some animal afterwards, and the kerchief by the storm. It was all apparently an unfortunate series of events that appeared far worse than the reality."

"Well," she sighed and sat back slightly in her seat, inwardly quite skeptical but outwardly much comforted, "I _am_ relieved to hear that it was only a breakdown in mechanics, and not in local social order. I shall certainly sleep easier knowing there are not bandits about; and I suspect those at the Abbey will as well."

The doctor looked pained at the suggestion his sharing would spread.

"Not to worry, Doctor Clarkson," Isobel quickly reassured with a grateful smile and carefully chosen words, "I shan't announce the details at dinner. I'm simply able to be confident in my own assurances to my staff and to the Downton Ladies. We can all take some comfort that nothing is being kept from us, because there is nothing to keep."

However, she knew that this mystery gentleman _was_ keeping something from the police, and that the attack had been very real, if its motive and actual victim were still unknown and worth hiding.

* * *

 _**Saturday, 23**_ _**November 1912** _

During their early afternoon stroll into town, Thomas walked a few steps ahead as Ian once again broke off to stare at something novel to him. Turning back, he found the young man leaning over the low bridge wall, watching the gentle flow tumbling over stone and stick, on its happy meander to the sea. Or at least to York or Hull…

"We have to keep movin', if we're to make it on time…," he reminded, glancing around for traffic or fellow travelers.

Ian turned with sheer joy on his face, "There's fish! I think…"

"You can have fish when we reach the pub—warmer and tastier fish," Thomas smiled at him. "Should've sent you ahead at dawn, if I'd known you'd stop at every turn and tree."

Ian hurried to rejoin him, taking his arm, braced against the crisp chill of the sunny day. "I've told you, I've not gotten out much. Ever. You keep introducin' me to all these new things…"

Thomas looked over at him, his wide eyes still darting all around them in the—to seasoned eyes—largely barren wood. Ian's flushed cheeks stood out brightly against his pale features, like balls of holly berries popping through snow. And little puffs of breath burst forth past his unfrozen smile, regular indicators of his ongoing excitement.

Ian's roving glance happened to catch Thomas' obvious stare. "What?"

"I like watchin' you take it all in," the guide explained, his eyes smiling. "And, I've never seen you in actual sunlight."

No longer the timid patient, and now oblivious to or uninterested in other possible eyes, Ian stopped them, turned, and haltingly slid his ungood arm around Thomas, to lock them face to face. "I'm happy, 'cause what I see makes me happy."

A nervous look overtaking him for a moment, Thomas glanced around again, still on guard against those who would not find this sight a happy one. And honestly, that was any and everyone else.

"Please be happy?" Ian asked, understanding the vigilance, but not the vigil. "You deserve to be happy, you know. You're allowed to. For me?"

" _Because_ of you," Thomas corrected with a kiss, savoring the face, the shared breath, the taste, the moment.

Ian inhaled and opened his eyes slowly as they finally parted, a wicked glimmer taking over quickly. "Are you courtin' me, Mr Barrow?"

"Is it workin'?"

A faux seriousness overtaking him, Ian slid away and headed on. "Depends on how good this promised fish is…"

* * *

Even nearly bald and dressed differently, Thomas couldn't take Ian to the Grantham Arms for the nicest possible dinner, out of the two choices, in Downton. The staff there had seen the younger man scant weeks before, and might recognize him despite the change in appearance, clothes and company. And more certainly, Thomas' funds were not limitless; and he'd spent quite a bit on Ian of late. Happily to be sure; but the joy was deeper than his pockets. So, more in keeping with Thomas' finances, risk tolerance and longer habit, the Duck and Dog was their late lunch destination this footman's half-day off.

Offing their caps, Thomas pointed Ian toward an out-of-the-way table, nodded to the man behind the bar, and grinned back at the bar maid across the room. Instructing Ian just to take it all in, he went up to the bar, exchanged some niceties with the staff, and returned shortly with two brimming pints. Introducing Ian to "bitters," they took advantage of not having to be quiet or secretive, and talked and laughed through Thomas' second glass, and a heaping plate of fish and chips each.

As they chatted, Thomas described some of the town they'd seen on the beeline to lunch, and catalogued some of the characters they'd seen about, or passing through the pub. Knowing it was their first public foray together, Thomas was reminded many times that this was also among Ian's first experiences outside the orphanage—at least positive ones.

And with each patient correction or explanation, he was more aware of his anger at the people who'd so intentionally sheltered the young man from even mundane, everyday life. Ian had been kept, to a greater degree even than the other children in the home, from developing useful experience with society. And not for his protection, but to keep him dependent on them, and then his… patron.

Ian laughed aloud at something he'd said, and even harder as a piece of chewed chip nearly fell out of his mouth.

And so Thomas' rage was yet again swept aside by the sheer joy with which Ian approached everything: mistake and learning. And by the adoration he showered back on the lowly footman for being his guide and companion.

"That was very much worth waitin' through a week of cold meals," Ian grinned as he licked his fingers clean, before gasping audibly. "I'm sorry! That sounded like a complaint; and I've none against you…" He looked fearful that he'd offended.

Thomas leaned in and held Ian's gaze since he couldn't hold his hand. "I wouldn't be doin' it, if I didn't want to. I'm not keepin' track, 'cause it's not a debt to be paid back." He playfully kicked at Ian's leg under the table, not pulling his foot away so as to maintain a more covert physical connection. "Besides, the adventure is excitin'; and the company is more than I could've ever asked for. I've no doubt I'm doin' more than alright in this deal."

Ian blushed so hard with gratitude, it looked like he was going to burst. Such undemanding affection was so unknown to him, it was hard enough to believe it, much less know how to respond to each reminder of it. "I know you're my angel, Thomas; my miracle. And still, I wanna find a way to pull me weight. I just don't know what work I can do…"

"I may have a lead on that as well, my boy," Thomas sat back a little, wanting to raise the next issue carefully, as it was risky. "I'm no art critic; I only know clocks, cocktails and cutlery really. But I sent off some of those pictures you drew, to some contacts in London. There's some new players in publishin' down there; and I'm hoping we can get your sketches in front of the right people… If everythin' goes well, you could be illustratin' for a fancy paper or magazine before Christmas."

"Do you really think my scratches are good enough?"

"It's not just me, Wink," Thomas chuckled as he added his next plume to the collected timber and tobacco cloud hanging over the room, and checked his pocket watch. "When I was mailing them off, one of the… better placed ladies in the village saw them, and took an interest. She's asked to meet you and see you work. So, we'll stop by there next, on our way home."

So focused on gauging Ian's response to the surprise professional introduction, it took him a moment to see past the shorn man's humility at having his talent complimented, and his nervousness at having to meet, and impress, someone important with it. In fact, it wasn't until he realized Ian was no longer looking trustingly at him or bashfully down, that he grasped that Ian had stopped moving entirely, having flushed red and then paled in an instant.

Surprised and then concerned, Thomas followed Ian's frozen stare toward the door. There, Tessie had just given a big, familiar hug to an incoming customer, whom she then guided to a table near the bar. As the new arrival removed his hat and turned to sit, Thomas understood Ian's reaction. This was one of the men Ian had sketched for him; a bandit from that fateful night.


	23. Mates

Another wave of emotion swept over Ian—rage of his own this time; and he stood abruptly, pointed in the direction of the appeared assailant.

"Whoa, there," Thomas grabbed his nearest arm and spun him back, glad the wrenching pain in that bad shoulder shocked Ian out of his vengeful intent.

Still, Ian's head snapped up at him; and he growled, "I may know nothin' of pints and pubs; but even locked away all me life, I know I'm due some justice."

"And you'll have it," Thomas promised, admiring the shift from having nightmares, to wanting to bestow some on the accused. "But not one-on-one with a bad arm; and not today. We have some bigger fish to catch and fry, if you can trust me on the longer game…?"

He stood and stepped into Ian's line of sight. "Believe me, I know revenge. It's much more satisfyin' if it's planned, not just a reaction. And, we have the advantage that no one but me knows you were there _and_ survived that night. Let's use that mystery, not show all our cards in the first hand…"

As he'd talked, Thomas had purposefully calmed and slowed his voice, modeling the shift in emotion they both needed to make for this opportunity to be productive.

Ian glanced at the laughing man across the room. His jaw flexed as he wrestled with competing desires.

"Please, Wink; for me?" Thomas asked, with a gentle squeeze to his wrist. "They will _all_ pay. But we have to be smart about it."

"Fine," Ian exhaled and agreed. Barely. "What do we do?"

Handing Ian his jacket and hat, Thomas instructed, " _You_ are going to slip out the front door while I pay for our meal. Head up to the square, and find someplace out of the way to wait for me. I won't be long…"

"But I-"

"Let your angel of vengeance work, love," Thomas whispered.

Trusting, if not liking, Ian strode out casually as Thomas slipped on, but didn't button up, his own outwear, taking stock of the situation and its options. He noticed that Tessie's attentions to the new man weren't flirtatious, as they were with most every other man she served; this was familiar and affectionate, but nothing more. He was family!

And from the angle Thomas watched, he noticed the man's arm slowly sliding down the back of his neighbour's chair, as they all chatted amicably. Until Tessie's cousin or brother had smoothly and expertly rifled through the draped jacket's pockets, and transferred their contents to his own. He was a thief! _How disappointing, not surprising, and useful…_

Making a point of keeping his wallet out as he walked to the bar and settled his tab with Mr Hislop, Thomas also made sure his display of cash—however small—was clearly visible to the bandit. Trading good wishes with the barman, he checked his watch, draped it sloppily into his vest pocket, turned toward the door, and conveniently walked right past the family reunion. Catching Tessie's eye, he made sure to pause long enough to acknowledge her with a smile and a nod… And was rewarded with her calling and reaching out to him, just as he'd hoped.

"Mister Thomas! If you've a moment, I'd love you to meet me brother!" Working her way out to the paused, smiling guest, she patted Thomas' arm and gestured to the man who did indeed resemble her, if rougher. "Willy, this is Mister Thomas; one of our regulars. He works up at the Abbey; but is never so high and mighty to not catch a bite and share some news with us common folk."

The two men nodded and shook hands, each a little heavy on the grip, just to make a point.

Thomas could tell Willy was giving him a good once over, undoubtedly given that the man's sister was fawning noticeably over him. But when the protective brother's gaze tarried over the shiny metal timepiece, hardly hidden at his waist, he knew he'd have his desired chance. With the scruffier sibling.

"Pleasure to meet you, Willy," he continued to grin, as Tessie relished the meeting of two men apparently important to her. "Tessie mentioned her strapping older brother, of course—helps keep these bastards at bay," he laughed about the other gathered drinkers. "But I don't know that I've seen you in before."

Willy played along with a glare at the other men, before explaining, "I'm in Leeds these days, scraping out a living best I can. But I come back to see me sis as often as work and wages allow." He took a draught from his nearly empty tankard, as if a toast to himself. "While you, sir, seem to be doing quite well for yourself on the scraps from that posh table out the country."

Thomas smiled more coolly, knowing he still represented the household, even if he wasn't playing this out for them. "I don't always intend to be on the serving side of the dishes; no, sir. And for all their fancy cuisine, nothing beats a pint and platter from my favorite public house and staff!" He turned to give an exaggerated wave to the owner, a playful, but appropriate, hug to Tessie, and an opportunity to the brother sitting at his opposite side.

And, as everyone around added to the rousing chorus of agreements and accolades for their hosts, Thomas felt the fingers at his waist and dropped his waiting hand to grab the wrist in mid-pick. Tightening his vice-like grip on the struggling and watch-filled hand, Thomas turned back as the others did, a smile still on his face. Before anyone else could act, he looked from Willy, to the clear evidence, back to Willy, and said loudly, "But I've got to be back to it now, with thanks to all for the hospitality and company as always. Willy, I hate to walk away having just met; perhaps you'll join me for a smoke outside?" A squeeze of the wrist and raised eyebrows suggested that the refusal would have painful and public consequences.

The brother demurred with false modestly, trying one last time to release himself, to no avail. "Well, perhaps if I might have me glass topped off while I step out… Who am I to turn down such a friendly offer by me sister's mate?"

So pleased at the connection between to the two, Tessie whisked the glass from the table and promised to have it back waiting on him.

With a wave to all, and without releasing his grip, Thomas politely 'allowed' his new friend to lead, and 'followed' him closely out to the street.

"Here's the deal, 'big brother,'" Thomas pre-empted as soon as they'd stepped clear of the door, "I will let you go without breaking your wrist, and without sharing your attempt on my watch and actual lightening of your tablemate's jacket, on one condition…"

His hand locked and his pockets full of damning evidence, Willy thought it best to at least know his options before choosing. Plus more talk meant more time to loose— But the grip tightened again, interrupting his scheming and causing him to call out in pain.

Smiling and pretending to holding up his drunk friend, for the benefit of any passers-by, Thomas' voice held no mirth. "You tell me everything about your failed job on Guy Fawkes Night."

That got the man's attention.

"I know you and two mates had dinner here, got a message from someone at the Grantham Arms, and then waylaid a car on the north road. The old man and the boy got away from you in the storm; so I know it didn't pay off well for your cold, wet and dark tree chopping. But unless you want the police, Mr Hislop or your lovely sister to know what you've been up to, then, today and probably during other visits here when things have gone missing…"

"You've no proof of anythin'," Willy protested.

"I'm holdin' a good bit, you daft bastard," Thomas reminded. "And the boy got away from you that night, leavin' a trail of evidence as you might have heard. But no body's ever been found. So far…"

Willy's eyes widened again. Did this angry stranger mean there was a body? That they'd actually killed the boy? Or just that there was a witness whose pride and good name weren't so delicate at the old geezer who preferred to protect his honor over the truth, just as they'd been promised he would.

"Tick tock," Thomas reminded with another twist to the wrist. "If not for your own sorry arse, then just imagine how Mr Hislop would react to the mere accusation that your sweet sister had been inviting a thief into his reputable business? He'd have to sack her, whether or not he believed she didn't know. Surely even a big man from Leeds can appreciate how these small towns do talk…"

"You wouldn't…," Willy glared, revealing some weakness where preserving his sister, or at least her victim rich place of employment, was concerned.

Thomas leaned in. "Don't let my nice clothes fool you. I only _work_ for a gentleman…"

What little doubt the man had, or better recourse he'd sought, was gone. "What do you want to know?"

Thomas knew his time was actually short—to maintain his hold on the man, and not to be interrupted. So, to the point. "Who set up the ambush?"

"It weren't me; one of me mates in Leeds. He knew the man who knew the mark."

"And who was this fellow then?"

"I don't know him. Only that he was the manservant of the old man. He knew when they'd be on the road; and we worked out the stop here in Downton."

"And the plan was to…? To rob him? Kill him?"

"'Course not kill him. We ain't murderers… Too messy. Just rough up the boy while they was sleepin' at the nicer pub, and run him off so as to look guilty, while we took anything of value we could get off 'em all."

"Why? What was the goal?"

"Who's daft now?! For the money!"

"Not _your_ goal. Why did the _servant_ want the boy blamed?"

"He seemed to have it in for the whelp," Willy sneered as he passed on the gossipy bit of his story. "He weren't happy about the codger's attention to the new, young thing… Seems he didn't appreciate bein' replaced as the sole caregiver."

 _Or sole heir to the lascivious old letch…_ "And when they moved on despite the storm?"

"His man sent us a note; and we had to come up with a way to get 'em on the road. Bastards... drove off leavin' us with nothing but the brat. Who broke me tooth, and me mate's fingers afore slippin' off. We couldn't even ransom him back…"

"How unfortunate for you," Thomas feigned sympathy, recalling the full extent of Ian's injuries, beyond the cold and trauma. And adding to his admiration that Ian could fight when needed.

"Well, the old man's pride couldn't stand people knowing 'bout the boy, or being robbed; so he's told the nice policeman nothin'. Our being here was just… coincidence as far as they can prove. And we'll be able to squeeze that servant for …compensation for a long while yet." Willy was all but smiling at how the deal might have become more profitable for its challenges.

"What's this servant's name?" Not that Thomas couldn't find out easily enough, as he knew the master. But for Willy to tell him would confuse suspicions down the road, if needed.

"I dunno. Nor the old man's. Didn't need to; don't care to," he offered his most honest sharing of the afternoon. "But I do know they'll soon miss us inside. I'd hate some for someone to come lookin', and… misunderstand our prolonged rendezvous. You know how these small towns do talk..."

Personally intended or not, the implication revolted Thomas on multiple levels. Having gotten all the information he probably could, save the names of Willy's accomplices, he released the knave's wrist with a shove to put some distance between them. "You'd best've spoken the truth to me today."

"And you'd best keep _your_ word about holdin' your tongue," the knave's confidence returned with his freedom.

His physical advantage gone, and time's passage likely to invite curiosity from someone, Thomas knew it was best to wrap up quickly. "Our understanding should benefit us both then; and we're both better off for the conversation."

"Indeed," Willy grudging agreed as he backed toward the door.

"Though," Thomas added casually, "it _is_ a shame you stumbled into the doorpost after I left you…"

"What? I didn't-"

The right hook caught Willy, and his nose, entirely by surprise. As he realized there was certainly blood, if not breakage, a voice standing over him explained, "That's for 'the boy.' And let your mates know: should I _ever_ hear tell of _any_ attempt to _un_ -even our score, Mr Hislop will receive some most unfortunate news."


	24. Drawing Lines

Still smiling smugly, Thomas found Ian dutifully waiting almost directly across the square from the direction of the pub, kicking the dirt and keeping a low, observant profile.

Smiling himself at the sight of the happy angel, Ian's expression grew concerned as Thomas approached, surmising enough to ask, "What happened to put such a grin on your face?" _What_ could _have happily happened in confronting and punishing him?_

"I'll tell you more later," Thomas promised, his expression changing unexpectedly to… pride, as he took in the sight of his not-entirely-victim. It was almost hard to imagine this vision shattering teeth and snapping fingers; but being both beauty and beast could be a useful combination when the world hated you… "For now, just know that I have a little more information to use against the whole lot of 'em; and none is the wiser of your safe recovery."

Ian made to press for more than vagaries; but Thomas cut him off with a quick finger to the lips. "To gather a little more knowledge, and to add blazin' success to the layers of our settling of scores, we have an appointment to keep now. How are you with your lines?"

Thomas turned and nodded them off in the direction of the largest home on the square. Flexing the fingers on his slightly stinging right hand, he got his biggest rush in recent moments when Ian intentionally grazed against him, the touch lingering enough to express a heartfelt appreciation and affection, whatever the details.

* * *

Isobel looked up from the book through which she'd been leafing. "Yes?"

Molesley looked even more uncomfortable than usual, as he seemed to work up the courage to explain, "It's Thomas, mam, the footman from the Abbey. He's at the kitchen door, with another young man, saying that… that you invited him?"

"Ah yes," she smiled. "I'm sure I told you to expect guests for tea."

" _They_ are the guests?" he seemed flummoxed.

"I believe I just made that clear. Please show them in; we'll take tea here in the study."

The butler blinked, closed his mouth, blinked again, and finally headed off as instructed. He still seemed bewildered when he returned with the uncommon, common guests moments later. "Thomas and Ian Barrow, mam."

Ignoring his awkwardness with the situation, and the two guests shared a grin, she rose and greeted them warmly. "It's so good to have you both. Please do come in."

They smiled and nodded, standing their ground and holding their hats just inside the room.

Sensing their discomfort, she moved toward them instead, and took the known visitor's surprised hand. "Thomas," she smiled and shook, before turning to the unfamiliar face.

"Mrs Isobel Crawley, this is my cousin, Ian," Thomas introduced in his upstairs accent.

"A pleasure to meet you, my lady," Ian bowed, as he'd been coached, to flatter and invite under-estimation.

Thomas was appropriately embarrassed by the scripted protocol mistake, standing Ian upright with a stern look.

"I'm sorry… 'mam'?" Ian looked between them for approval. "I've not much experience with meetin' nobility."

"Nor do I with being mistaken for them," Isobel laughed at the genuine innocence, before turning to the apologetic-looking Thomas. "Whyever didn't you come to the front door? I am not royalty; and you're here as guests," she chided, as if hurt that they didn't feel welcome despite her explicit invitation.

"I _am_ a servant, mam; here at your instruction," Thomas smiled, giving no indication of insult at that fact.

The lady's face and shoulders dropped at the reminder of that stark and persistent divide, one she was still learning and not comfortable with. Recovering, she forced the return of her hostess smile, and waved them to join her at the table, "Well then, let us meet at what crossroads we can."

Only with an affirming nod did Ian accept Thomas's obvious nudge to take the seat across from her, as the older man took up a spot just behind and beside his younger relative.

Mrs Crawley looked at him, but accepted his subtle headshake that this was all he could do, both for his professional comfort and all their appearances. She sighed, resigned, and turned her attention to the less status conscious cousin, as he tried hard not to gawk about the room too obviously as the tray arrived. "Ah, Molesley; thank you."

Thomas was surprised by this unexpected and unnecessary gratitude toward a staff member; and might have been moved by her acknowledgement of a servant, were it not the man who'd taken his rightful position as valet to the Mister Crawley.

Himself bothered by having to wait on a lower-ranking and younger servant, Molesley shared a pained look with his mistress, who remained oblivious to those nuances of hierarchy and peasant pride.

Isobel's smile persevered through what she could tell was some kind of protocol tension; but she decided that now was not the moment to try to unravel this latest knot of infuriating etiquette. Any breach was done, and calling any further attention would only prolong it.

"Tea?" she served herself and Ian, and offered to Thomas, hoping a cup and saucer to handle would encourage him to sit.

"Thank you, mam; none for me," he demurred. "We've just come from lunch in the village; and I am more than full. But, I'm sure Ian could be tempted with a bit and biscuit."

The younger man grinned at the suggestion, before a friendly hand on his shoulder reminded him to sit up more and smile less.

Glad for the small success, Isobel moved the plate of cookies closer to him, and poured her own cup as he tried one. "Ian, I suppose that Thomas has explained why I asked you both here today?"

He nodded, chewed and tried not to smile, torn between hastily refreshed manners and the rare, sweet indulgence.

"So you'll know I'm very happy you were scheduled to visit this weekend, so that I could meet you. Are you staying with your cousin at Downton? Can you…?" she wondered, having never thought about whether staff could have guests, never mind how specifically.

"I'm…," Ian began to attempt to explain, not having prepared an answer for that question.

"He's just visiting for the day, Mrs Crawley," Thomas grinned and playfully rubbed the fuzzy head. "I'm to have him back at the station for the last train back to York."

"I see. Well, if it's a question of space or protocol with your employers," she indicated Thomas, and turned back to Ian, "you'd be more than welcome to stay with us at Crawley House. It would be our pleasure."

"That's very kind, Mrs Crawley; truly," Thomas continued to take the lead, as Ian looked unsure how to respond. "But… it wouldn't be… proper." His look and intonation made it clear that larger powers deemed this yet another line uncrossable.

 _Blocked again at the simplest kindness_ , Isobel sighed again. _In what warped web has Matthew's bloodline caught us?_ To business then- Except… "Ian, I am sorry to pry; but I can't help but notice how significantly you favor your left arm."

"Yes, mam. I'm left-handed, I use it for everythin'."

"Even his drawing," Thomas confirmed and boasted.

"Even so, is your right arm… injured?"

That she continued to veer into unanticipated topics confused both Ian and Thomas. Given the constraints of mannered conversations, Thomas had presumed the widow Crawley would confine herself to pleasantries and the specific business. Even with her middle class upbringing, her interest in local crimes, and her appreciating servants, offering guest beds to strangers and prying on their medical issues was well beyond the expected. How interesting she would be, if her chatty wonderings weren't imperiling his plan and partner. He had to think of something quickly, to dull or deflect her curiosity…

"I fell on me shoulder a few weeks back, mam," Ian confessed with an embarrassed blush, after no more than a moment's pause. "Just stumbled on a curb, tryin' to avoid a car on the street. Clumsy of me…"

"If it still bothers you so notably, we should have it looked at. Doctor Clarkson is just-"

"I thank you for your concern, mam," Ian continued improvising. "But, it's comin' along well enough. And as I said, I much favor me left anyways."

"I was trained a nurse; and would be happy-"

"And, I have to catch me train," Ian reminded warmly, if firmly, and took another bite of biscuit.

Giving up on the unsuccessful intricacies of courtesy and concerns, she nodded, and returned to the purpose of their meeting. "Very well, then. Ian, your cousin has shown me some most impressive sketches, most impressive. Where were you trained?"

"No trainin', mam. I guess I'm self-taught…" Ian returned to script, including its charming, if not entirely spontaneous, humility.

"Well, there's no need to be embarrassed by talent, young man," she chuckled at his hesitation. "That shows it's innate, and not forced. A gem some publisher would love to polish rather than mining from the start."

Thomas placed his hand on Ian's good shoulder, proud of the drawing and acting talents.

"As I promised in the post office, Thomas, I did check with my contacts, colleagues of my late husband's, who are publishers of medical texts for universities and private practices. And they asked me to send them some additional examples of Ian's work, especially those of human anatomy, as everything you shared was still life or landscape." She patted the thick book she'd been looking at when they arrived.

"So if you can take a break from the tea," she cleared a space before Ian, "I thought you might sketch something quickly for me, so I can see your skill in that realm. Thomas," she reached out to him, "perhaps you'd be so good as to model for us?"

"Me, mam?" he looked shocked, and genuinely was so. But Ian, while suddenly nervous, nodded to him, eyes twinkling in aesthetic approval.

"Of course; don't be modest," Isobel laughed. She took his haltingly offered hand, and pulled him around to the table as she stood. She placed his left hand on the surface before Ian, gently flattening it with a pat. "Such lovely hands, Thomas. Don't you agree, Ian?"

"Yes, mam, very nice," he nodded, before grinning up at its owner, making clear he meant it more than she meant or knew.

"They're just hands, mam," Thomas blushed.

"Indeed. But they are also among the more difficult body parts to draw well: proportions, junctures, textures—quite a bit of physiology crammed into a small, taken for granted space."

The men looked at one another, and back to her.

"I've gathered this pencil and paper for you, Ian. They may not be the materials you're accustomed to working with; but I hope they'll suffice."

"Well…," Thomas began to intercede in the trial, however well intentioned.

"Thank you again, Mrs Crawley. I'd be happy to," Ian interrupted. "But, I wonder whether I might just draw me own hand, as I'll need it to hold the paper." Doing his best to cover a passing grimace, he brought his right hand up onto the table, secured the paper with the convenient reference, and picked up the pencil with his left hand. Two confident messages delivered in a single action.

Both his audience members chuckled at his cheek and determination. The man winked.

"Perhaps we can allow him some space to work?" Isobel suggested, waving Thomas over to the chairs nearby. She sat; and he stood facing her, pleasantly. "Thomas, if the invitation is not enough, would it help if I _ordered_ you to sit down?" she wondered, exasperated at the continuing caste trappings.

He obliged uneagerly, also perching so he could keep Ian in at least the edge of his vision.

"Thank you for coming, and for bringing him," Isobel began, finally able to converse with her guest at an even physical level, if nothing else. "I do apologise for the surprise task. The publisher asked me specifically to confirm he is actually the artist, as they apparently get a good number of unsolicited submissions… I hadn't considered the market for such artists was so crowded, or potentially dishonest."

"It's likely there is no pure market, village or city, mam."

"Sadly true," she conceded, before dropping her voice, "Including our own, as our highway bandits are still at large."

He acknowledged her broaching the shared subject by turning slightly toward her, to spare his cousin the distraction and distress, of course.

She continued, "I have not shared this with Lady Edith yet, as I hesitate to encourage her further to no purpose; but I understand that the police have traced everything back to a bachelor gentleman north of Manchester, who claims the car became stuck in the mud, and his driver bled on a nephew's clothing they were using to free it. But his story is clearly a fabrication, as it does not account for the felled tree, the other men sent forth from the Duck and Dog, or realistically how the shoe and kerchief got so far away…"

"And I suppose, with no victim or reported crime, the authorities will not be pursuing those loose ends any further?" Thomas surmised.

She shook her head in disappointment. "While I can't be sure, it doesn't seem they even checked with this nephew, to confirm he is actually safe and well. I suppose, I could inquire with the barmaid at the pub; without realizing why I was interested, she told me that one of the men there that night, was her own brother."

"No," Thomas disagreed, not surprised by that disclosure, and having just worked that lead himself. Not that Mrs Crawley needed to know that, or follow up on it. "I know Tessie; and she won't give up her brother, not without tipping him off, even innocently. And it's not like he would confess to anything, even if we reached him. Perhaps for his own reasons, the old man is clearly covering up whatever did happen. Did you by chance learn his name?" he hoped.

Isobel shook her head again. "So we're back to no good leads, unless one of us can convince the constable to name the gentleman, or Tessie, her brother. And Lady Edith will not sit idly much longer; she's quite headstrong, I am learning."

Agreed on that point, the pair sat dejected at the apparent dead end in their investigations. They turned to look at the busy Ian, and what progress he was making, both on the biscuits and the sketch before him.

"I do hope this works out for him, Thomas. He seems such a charming young man-The nephew!" her sharing changed suddenly enough to startle both her guests. "Fancy dinner at the Grantham Arms before your train?" she smiled, excited. "We can get his description from the staff there, and use all our connections, Lady Edith included, to find the nephew!"


	25. Twisted and turns

"We'll have to make an appearance at the train station," Thomas explained as they turned away from Crawley House and headed away from the direction of the Abbey and its cottages. "Small town; people talk."

"I don't mind more time out. Together," Ian smiled and leaned in just long enough to register the linger.

"Careful," Thomas warned and moved away, glancing toward and across the square for familiar faces and interested eyes. "Small town..."

"Have I done somethin'?" Ian asked hesitantly. "The lady seemed pleased with my sketch, and to like me. She even made me up some biscuits 'for the train,'" he indicated the tied paper bundle. "But you've seemed cross since she asked us to supper, and got on about me arm again…"

As they passed out of the village proper, and onto the short road to the station, Thomas couldn't help but notice the unease that had crept into Ian's voice, and the concern with which the brown eyes focused on him as he trudged them on.

"You done nothin'," he smiled through his worry. "You were brilliant, actually, with words _and_ pencil. How could she not like you? And I couldn't be more impressed or prouder. I was just… worried when she seemed intent on takin' us to the Grantham Arms, where you might get recognized."

"Or you get seen out with her," Ian guessed correctly.

"She doesn't understand how improper that would be, even if she's not actually nobility. And it would come down the worse on me at Downton if word spread. Never mind explainin' you to his Lordship or Mister Carson." _Or O'Brien…_

"You handled that quick enough, remindin' her of the train, and turnin' to my drawin's. There's more to it," Ian persisted, his look shifting from concerned to soul-searching.

"You haven't known me long enough to think you can-"

"But I know you _well_ , angel." Ian stopped walking. "I can sense it on you. Please tell me?"

Thomas turned back, the shadows of dusk doing nothing to hide the intensity of his walking partner's stare or steadfastness. He smiled nervously at the younger man's insight on him, which both unnerved and invigorated him. And he could easily accept that exciting tension, if it weren't that the source of his concern was also a risk to the source of his joy. He walked the few steps back to Ian, and stood closer than his instincts suggested was safe. _Damn social expectations._ "Mrs Crawley was honestly concerned about your arm," he confessed in a whisper born of guilt. "As we stepped out, she begged me to get you looked at. I'm afraid I've been too protective of _us_ , and not attended enough to _you_. If I've waited too long, and-"

The quick kiss was enough to interrupt the slide into self-blame; and the good hand that joined his in his coat pocket, enough to lead him on toward and beyond the station lights ahead in the growing darkness. "You can take me to the doctor _after_ you've taken me home tonight."

* * *

"I meant what I said earlier today," Ian said as they lay together before the fire later that evening. It was only on this rare half-day off that they were able to be together any amount of time at all, much less with Thomas not needing to sleep immediately so that he could be up all the sooner in the morning. And today had been a largely wonderful, and long, such window of time. As the extended visit had wound down, and the temperature dropped, they'd made it back to the cottage in time to share a cookie and more…

"What's that?" Thomas asked, thumbing a bead of sweat off the brow above the cool, dark eyes.

"Among other of me favorites, you do have nice hands," Ian smiled, catching and inspecting the passing paw. "Strong, nimble, rough enough to show you're a hard worker; gentle enough to let me know I'm important. And they fit just right." He nestled his cheek into the palm, proving his point.

"It takes two to a match," Thomas reminded, with a caress to the cradled face. "And speakin' of, I think 'Thomas and Ian Barrow' had a nice ring to it."

"I don't know," Ian squirmed.

Thomas looked concerned.

"Age afore beauty is nice enough I suppose; but I think ' _Ian_ and Thomas Barrow' sounds better…"

"Wha—?!" the second mister stuttered, before the first's grin and attempt to slide away elicited a round of laughter and a careful, rolling embrace. Quietly of course.

* * *

 _**Sunday, 24** _ _**th** _ _**November 1912** _

Greenhalgh. Grotton. Gwilliams.

"These names are quite different," Edith turned her nose up at the list he'd slipped her on the way into the house after church. "Are you certain she needs information on all three?"

Thomas shrugged with an understanding smile, as he helped her slowly out of her coat. "I don't understand why Mrs Crawley wasn't able to be more specific. I'm to ask after their servants; and she hoped you had either heard from them, or could gather information on them and their relations from the registry."

Her mind raced with this most tangible lead since she learned of the monogrammed initial. Thomas had relayed that neither he nor her cousin in the village had been able to make any meaningful headway tracking down the assailants, as had been the most recent plan. People either knew nothing, or were willing to share nothing—either possibility only adding to the mystery! And that lack of progress was even more disappointing given her father's rather comprehensive ban on her previous work to identify the moneyed victim. But this new lead, however broad, was enough to show the trail was not cold, the adventure not done. But it must proceed with more caution, and haste, than ever!

She tempered her grin quickly, handing Thomas her scarf and gloves. "I shall need your assistance to access the library without anyone else knowing. I imagine papa, if not Carson, will be watching that copy of _Burke_ 's like hawks."

"Of course, milady," he nodded, as the same butler looked back at what was delaying him and the middle daughter.

"Thank you, Thomas," she sensed enough to feign a struggle with her hat, and comment loudly, "That will be all."

"Milady," Thomas almost coughed, eyeing the piece of evidence she still clutched.

"What? Oh," she realized, discreetly popping a button off the coat he had already taken from her, and then visibly handing it back to him, along with the elicit paper slip, before proceeding upstairs to prepare for luncheon. "Of course. I do love that coat, and will expect an update on its mending by this evening."

"Is there a problem, Thomas?" Carson asked as the footman finally approached the service stair, after tarrying with Lady Edith, and then in the coatroom, far longer than usual.

"No, Mister Carson," he assured, looking puzzled. "Why do you ask?" He conspicuously closed his hand around the large, loose button, before brushing a drop of melted snow off the matching woman's coat on his arm.

The butler pursed his lips as his eyebrows twitched in tune, before his whole face fell still and fell. "No; I suppose not. Do let Mrs Hughes know if you need assistance restoring that button for her Ladyship."

"Of course, Mister Carson," he relaxed and assured his supervisor. "Though, I do like to think I'm quite handy at tying up loose threads."

* * *

"How about you, Thomas? Just one more hand?" O'Brien asked with a mock pout across the servants' table, as the younger William rose, yawned and headed upstairs.

Thomas looked a little shocked, even irritated, that she was pushing for yet another round on the already late Sunday night. He tapped the playing cards in his hand on the table, and tossed them onto the discard pile.

"What's the matter?" she goaded again. "Got somewhere to be?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. It's called a 'bed,'" he reminded, standing to take his leave to it.

"I see," she nodded agreeably, before looking up at him with clear mischief, "And where would that be located this chilly, lonely night?"

"Are you well?" he turned to ask with a concerned look on his face. "Where do you think my bed is?" _What was she on about?_

It was clear that O'Brien was taking her time gathering and arranging the cards into her hand. She always did. " _Your_ bed is in your room, I know. But that's not what I asked you; and that's not where you said you were goin'."

Thomas gripped the back of the chair, holding himself up on it, as he battled the urge to flee the room, or to fling it at her, or both.

Her feigned nonchalance continued, as she inspected and shifted the odd card. "You've been far too chipper of late, if a little tired-looking. You're up late, and up early for no good reason. And I'm fairly certain that _your_ bed, in _your_ room, has been empty at least a few nights recently…"

No outright accusation; just assertions, to test his reactions. Even more delicate and dangerous.

"I told you," he looked over his shoulder to the hall and stairs, "Or better, you'd already figured out, that I've got somethin' workin' for the middle young Lady…"

"Overnight? For a fortnight?" she was more honestly skeptical and cool. "She's not even that attractive…"

"I said ' _for'_ her," he recoiled honestly. "Not _'with'_ …"

"And I didn't say nothin'," she reminded, setting down the cards, and looking up at him for the first time. "But I do know that you're not the only one who gets a half-day off. And that the good Mr Molesley is far too eager to please, or too frightened not to…"

He knew his face had gone as white as his knuckles; but he couldn't help it. He could appreciate how this… cold fury could frighten a man when she wished to.

She stood, and walked slowly around the table toward the door, "Remember, Thomas, unlike the others, I'm not stupid. And I know you've been steppin' out more nights than not of late." She slowed as she passed behind him. "I'm glad you got to visit with your cousin, I am; but that's only a single afternoon accounted for. And, I'm less likely to wonder, or to inquire, and I can better cover for ya, if I know when and where you're off to. And then we can all sleep better… Wouldn’t you agree? Good night."

Without waiting for a response, she passed into the hall; and her footsteps faded up the stairs.

The light snow drifting against the high windows was not the only thing piling up on Thomas' plans this night.


	26. Packing

**_Tuesday, 26 th November 1912_ **

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to worry ya," Thomas promised, when he finally pulled Ian to him again, as soon as they stepped into the upper room two nights later. "I'm sorry; but I couldn't risk it. Not with enough snow on the ground to mark my trail clear as day. And not with a… a colleague startin' to take note of my absence each night. Goin' ahead, we've got to be more careful." His cold hands stroked the warm cheek; and he kissed the forehead and fuzz for the umpteenth time in minutes.

"I trust you," Ian assured with more confidence than his relieved clutch suggested. "And I had enough food, and paced me firewood."

 _Which he couldn't step out to fetch more of without likewise leaving tracks in the snow!_ "You must be freezin'; I'm sorry! Here's a parcel from tonight's dinner; you start on that, and I'll go and get you some logs while I've still got me coat on."

Moments later, Thomas had let himself back in with an armload of wood quietly pulled from the neighbour's doorside pile. As had been the case for the last fortnight, he hoped they wouldn't notice or think much on their rapidly dwindling kindling.

Still wrapped in the blanket he'd worn to open to the door, Ian was sitting by the low fire, well into the newly delivered meat pie.

Thomas could see he wasn't using his right arm at all, but that the desk where he now draped his own coat was covered in new sketches. For two days, Ian had obviously had nothing else to do but draw, and so had paper captured a few additional Manchester buildings, a murky Abbey, his own hand from various angles, and some people—from the pub, Mrs Crawley, and a rather austere-looking Thomas Barrow.

"Is this how you see me now?" he wondered with a smile.

"It's how you were at Lady Isobel's," Ian explained, wiping his chin. "The way you talked, and held yourself while we were there. Like a whole new man."

Quickly stripped for bed, Thomas settled in behind him with a worried look on his face. "I suppose you've never seen 'upstairs Thomas,' have you?"

"I like my Thomas much better," Ian smiled, twisting to steal a kiss, and then fed his visitor a chip. "But it was good to see that part of what you do. And see what I might need to learn to do…"

"The plan is that you _never_ have to live in service," he reminded them both. "And that I won't have to for much longer."

"Is there news from London?" Ian asked, almost hopeful the optimism was based in something tangible.

"Not yet; too soon. But if the publishers are eager, we should hear back any day—from mine or Mrs Crawley's." He rested his chin on Ian's good shoulder, taking in a contented breath and letting the smell of the musty room, crackling fire and hearty pie, be replaced by the unique, faintly musky scent of his storm-delivered sweetheart.

Finishing off his plate, Ian leaned back into the full body embrace, relishing both gifts from his saving angel.

Thomas felt the sigh as Ian nestled against him; and quickly began to drowse as Ian stroked his wraparound arm, connecting their mutual contentment.

Then the caress stopped. And Ian's breathing stopped. And he weakly whispered into Thomas' chest, "Either way, I have to go, don't I?"

Already worried and guilty for his unplanned and unannounced absence due to the simple, if sudden, wintry blanket and coworker's suspicion, Thomas nearly died where he sat as he understood Ian also believed banishment was still the unavoidable consequence.

It hurt all the more when he admitted to himself that, to some degree, and from a certain perspective, Ian was correct. As he'd said himself, they couldn't keep this up indefinitely.

Or, in the wonderful case that Ian's attributes were recognized more widely than Thomas and Mrs Crawley, that his artist would visit, and then move permanently to London. Must follow the livelihood, not the love. And even should Thomas be able to join him, there was not yet even an inkling of a plan for how or when he could depart Downton, for any job, much less for a better position. At least for the foreseeable future, Ian's escape promised only an obstacle, not an opportunity, for their being together.

Holding this now familiar gem more precious than silver, Thomas realized once again that his wretched life would strike him only a devil's bargain, would beat him about the heart with the bittersweet cliché: to save Ian, he'd have to lose him. Eyes wet, he held Ian closer and sighed, "Aye. You do…"

Though he would not have thought it possible, Thomas felt even more pain when Ian made no reaction to his blunt agreement, so unsurprised was the younger man at that inevitable ill turn of fortune, and so resigned to it he seemed. There was no shudder, shrug or clench; no push, pull or fight. What fire he'd shown in the pub just days before, what passion that night, was gone. Reality was cold and harsh as the recent snow; and Ian seemed to understand that it had hunted him down again, despite the protective embrace around him. Perhaps, if he just didn't move, just perhaps the moment would hold, like the encircling arms.

Pulling that blanket tighter against the cool future, Thomas pressed his cheek against Ian's fuzzy crown and gave the only additional gift he could, "You do have to go; that's true. But I _promise_ , I will follow quick as I can…"

Ian hooked one finger on the open collar of Thomas' undershirt, a habit both had learned to find comforting since their first, stormy night together.

Rocking him ever so slightly, Thomas knew he needed to find a ticket ensuring their joint escape from the current circumstance. And if he couldn't guarantee that opportunity for them, he would need to acquire the resources to create it.

* * *

 _**Thursday, 28** _ _**th** _ _**November 1912** _

"Carson, I _am_ sorry to arrive early, and unannounced as well. But I had hoped I might consult with Mr Bates on a few questions about my son's wardrobe. Molesley is very efficient, to be sure; but I'd like to get a second opinion to inform my Christmas shopping."

"It would be our pleasure, Mrs Crawley," the butler lied dutifully. "However, Mr Bates is currently seeing to his Lordship's evening attire." And how they would find a time and place to connect this guest and her evening's schedule with a staff member she would never normally encounter…

"Of course," she laughed, "How silly of me not consider that this is one of his busiest times of day. So busy for all of you…"

Carson pursed his lips and nodded in actual and expected agreement with her sudden insights.

Isobel looked around as if disappointed at the situation she'd created, before allowing her eye to fall on the stoic footman who'd also hurried to receive her. "Oh," she thought aloud, "as he's likely to be the one to carry in the trunk I've brought with me, and I know your sharp eye will be needed elsewhere until cocktails, I wonder whether the footman… Thomas, is it? Might I pose a few questions to him, before everyone gathers?"

"Thomas is neither a valet nor a butler, Mrs Crawley; and so does not have the training or experience…," Carson corrected, making that same footman flinch at the status reminder so easily handed down.

"Actually," he was cut off, "I think my son would also benefit greatly from another… younger man's eye, for what is 'the fashion' of today. If there were any way you could spare him to help occupy me at the moment, and with full assurance that I should also treasure your and Mr Bates' learned opinions, when you can spare a moment later this evening…"

Carson blinked at the quick, if disruptive, logic. "Very well… Thomas, please bring Mrs Crawley's trunk into the library, and be smart with your counsel. Mrs Crawley, if you'll follow me, I'll see you in, and then let her Ladyship know that you've arrived."

As he unfastened the victor's luggage, Thomas caught both his silent, defeated harrumph, and her knowing wink as the butler waved in the guest.

* * *

Once alone in the library, Thomas helped Mrs Crawley lay out a variety of shirts, slacks and jackets for inspection.

Knowing ears and eyes might linger to ensure the private consult was at least beginning well, Isobel narrated, "It's a selection of what Mr Crawley currently owns, and of items I sent for in preparation for Christmas parties, and as possible gifts."

"Much of this is actually quite nice, mam," Thomas had to admit, before pausing at one vivid ensemble. "Though…"

"Be honest, Thomas. He needs to present the proper image; and I assure you I can handle a little couture critique," Isobel smiled.

Perhaps for those same potential ears, he simply smiled, shook his head and re-folded the offending set. "This jacket, however, is quite smart…"

"You seem surprised, Thomas," she joked, before stepping over and dropping her voice. "Unless you note something particularly off, I expect we'll keep most of it. In the meanwhile, the charade of our debate will allow us to speak…"

He paused to take in her covert confidence, indeed a little surprised.

She cocked her head as if to remind him that he'd been the one to send word that they needed to speak. Had she misunderstood when Edith arrived Wednesday afternoon with this night's dinner invitation? Had she also gone through the half-pretense of this pre-holiday fashion show, and arranged their rare moments alone, for no reason?

Thomas _was_ indeed surprised, and impressed. But private time would be as fleeting as it was manufactured. So, as they continued to tut over sundry articles from the trunk, he began with no further introduction, "Despite her father's instructions, Lady Edith has managed to track down some good possibilities for our bachelor gentleman. I need to go to Manchester to check with some contacts there; but a Saturday afternoon won't be enough to travel, enquire and return…"

"Could Lady Edith request you accompany her for the day, to assist with Christmas shopping perhaps?"

"No, mam. She could not," he stated simply, shaking his head at one outdated pair of shoes.

Isobel sighed, realizing, "It would be 'improper' for a young lady to travel accompanied only by an unmarried male servant…"

"And, his Lordship would sense something afoot immediately. London and York are more familiar destinations for her; why the 'G' gentleman's Manchester?"

"And you would actually be responsible for her, should she manage to get you both there…? Then I shall request you to accompany _me_ ," she decided with a reactionary resolve, perhaps as he had hoped. "Surely I am old enough to need no chaperone, and to invite no scandal. It's a city I know well; and I am known well enough in it. My going there should invite no suspicion."

"And not being able to do more here in Downton…"

She smiled at his deeper understanding, "Even briefly, I shall be able to escape this rigid system of my own accord, and to my own ends. Yes." That possibility elicited a sigh and smile from her, before she seemed to remember another point they should consider. "And speaking of Manchester, how is your younger cousin?"

Comparing the stitching on two dress shirts, Thomas actually started at her bringing Ian into this mix, and with such assertive concern. "My cousin?"

"I don't need youthful eyesight to tell that he adores you; and I think you, him. So precious, that bond between relations… But I ask because I also got the sense that, for fear or finances, he wasn't keen on the medical attention. I'd guess he's not darkened the door of any physician?"

"No, mam," Thomas wilted in guilt, "I don't believe he has."

The former nurse pursed her lips and looked at him with no small amount of irritation, her thoughts clearly racing toward what she would like to say, or have happen. Finally though, larger plans clicked into place, "Beyond some escape and inquiries, it _would_ be nice to check in on several friends in the city before the holidays. So, I'll do this—ask for your travel assistance—on two conditions."

"Mam?"

"First, we shall actually do some shopping; so that we neither are lying."

He nodded. "And the second?"

"While you make your rounds, I will see your cousin properly to a doctor."

Pleased at the overdue care, if further guilted that it would still not be him who arranged it, Thomas smiled nervously. Even more importantly, his past promises to Ian, and his own agenda in Manchester required that Ian _not_ be with him; if Ian would even deign to accompany them back to the city he'd escaped, he would have to stay separate from Thomas for much of the time there. And if the Mancunian lady could keep him from Thomas, Ian would then have to be prepared for any range of questions and conversations with her; her curiosity and insightfulness could be dangerous. Never mind what a good doctor might deduce about Ian's injuries, or diagnose from them. And, even before all those concerns, as far as Mrs Crawley knew, Ian was already back in Manchester-a ticketing and railcar puzzle he'd have to solve to even get them started.

"Is that a problem, Thomas?" Isobel asked, seeing his mind race at the suggestion. "I understand you can't speak for his commitments; but again, I can see how mention of his injury troubles you. Whatever your methods, I shall have to impose on you to secure his participation. Will you?"

It had to work. He needed it to. And Ian did, most of all. He smiled, honestly grateful for her compassion, for her offering to address a concern thus far beyond his ability to safely resolve. "I will, mam... He may not like it; but we both appreciate your kindness. Me especially."

His exhale and decision were greeted with a genuinely pleased smile. "Then I shall speak to her Ladyship over drinks this evening, and secure your release for this Saturday."

"One final thing, mam… In applying your able arguments with her Ladyship, you'll need to explain why none of your own or our other staff are better suited to accompany you, and to ensure that no one else, their Ladyships included, joins us."

She held up a final jacket for his approving nod, and winked. "That shall be no problem. Your insights this evening have already proven you to be an invaluable and irreplaceable resource. I should invite and accept no one else!"


	27. Tickets to Ride

_**Saturday, 30th November 1912** _

"Thomas, are you well?"

"Mam?" he turned back so abruptly, he surely confirmed that he had not been paying due attention. _No sign of Ian,_ he worried to himself, _I shouldn't have left him to get here alone…_ "I'm fine, mam. Just a little… pre-occupied," he tried to recover.

Isobel chuckled, "You needn't be. I do appreciate your help with the luggage, and with selecting some gift items for Mr Crawley. So, unless you've said something more to the family or staff, we've not actually offered any falsehood about today's trip."

"True enough, mam," he forced a smile. _Half-true, anyways…_

"And I was quite clear with her Ladyship that I meant to make this trip on my own, your able assistance excepted. And, my staff is busy decorating Crawley House for its first Christmas in some years."

"As you say, mam," he smiled.

Isobel tutted once again at how beaten down the servants could be, so worried about doing anything the least bit wrong. Or at least being caught doing so. She hoped her own, new staff weren't so skittish, and that, should Matthew become the full heir to Downton, he shouldn't forget his upbringing in supervising his staff.

Respecting the status quo to a point, she nodded her acceptance, and turned to the logistics of their travel. "If you'd be so good as to see to the trunks, I'll get us tickets. And don't you argue," she cut him off, "You're doing this as much for me and Lady Edith, as for your cousin. So it will be my pleasure to get your ticket. _That_ is my final word."

Thomas opened his mouth to argue, but knew better than to question her, and appreciated even the small savings to his own wallet. He nodded his thanks, and hoped she knew enough to buy them tickets for separate classes.

But before he could open his mouth to make that critical reminder, a voice called out from the station entrance roundabout behind them. "Cousin Isobel!"

They both turned to find Lady Edith clambering out of the Abbey's horse carriage before the driver could dismount himself, with O'Brien coming 'round from the far side.

Casting an irritated glance his way, the senior woman also layered a smile onto her shock, reaching out to clasp hands with the beaming new arrival. "Lady Edith, what a surprise!"

"I know!" Edith continued to grin, with a wink to them both. "But I hadn't been to Manchester in so long and happened to mention so this morning, when I heard you were going. And dear O'Brien pointed out that all one really needs to travel there by train… is a ticket!"

Behind her, the helpful lady's maid nodded with an excess of modesty at the credit she was being given for the simple observation. In equal measure, she relished the quick glares both Thomas and Mrs Crawley shot her.

"So your mother permitted you to join us?" Isobel asked with every morsel of pleasantness she could muster.

"Oh I didn't ask… She'd made it clear none of us was to accompany you. But, she said nothing of _happening_ to travel to the same place at the same time..." Edith winked again at the stone-faced duo, glancing back at the differently smug O'Brien, expecting them to see her as clever for devising a way to 'not' join them on the expedition for which she'd provided all the clues.

"Well then," Isobel smiled with a sigh, "we should buy our tickets…"

Grinning, Edith took her arm; and they headed toward the station office.

Picking up a trunk, Thomas explained, "Mrs Crawley has offered to purchase mine, as I'm along at her request." The implication that his colleague was on her own, was clear.

"Oh, I'm happy to get me own ticket," O'Brien assured, before stepping quickly after the other women with her own wide grin. "I wouldn't miss this traveling circus for the world."

* * *

Having moved the few Crawley trunks nearer the platform, Thomas left the two nobler ladies in the small, but still wind-protected, First Class lounge, and returned to the luggage, ever watchful for the still absent Ian. Instead, it was O'Brien who was waiting for him in the chill; and she looked quite warm.

"Don't look so unhappy to see me," she smarmed, as he again inspected the bags and the larger surroundings. "You told me yourself that you were in cahoots with her. I thought it'd help her get 'round her Ladyship's prohibition, and having all your conspirators along would help you. Oh," she gasped over-dramatically, "Was that _not_ useful for your plans for the day? I'm so sorry; if only I'd known more…" Her contrition manifested as a wicked a grin that didn't fade as she straightened her coat and looked up the track expectantly.

Once again, he knew he could best sate her wicked curiosity with at least a portion of the truth. "You're wasting your time, you know, as there'll be nothing to see… Mrs Crawley is going to visit her house and local friends, and do some shopping, as she honestly indicated. I'm along to help with that, truly… and to check with some contacts about the north road robbery, that her Ladyship thinks are connected to her ghost." Having snorted his unfortunate duties, he heard the train whistle up the track; but still no sign of Ian…

O'Brien seemed unsurprised by the daughter's obsession, but not entirely convinced that Thomas was along simply to placate her naught-else-to-do curiosity. She _knew_ he had more at play, just not what. "There's no trouble then, is there? We're all in for a nice trip to the city."

He smiled at her, the mutual respect and suspicion palpable, but balanced. For now. "Well, if you don't mind seeing her Ladyship and Mrs Crawley into their car, I'll make sure the luggage is aboard, so we can all enjoy it. Save me a seat in the closest Third?"

Nodding, she slowly made her way up the platform as the steam-billowing engine came into view.

Glancing quickly at the stack of trunks, Thomas darted down the side of the station building, growing frantic for the party's final, unaccounted for, and most critical member.

"Psst," a whisper caught his ear, as something touched his arm.

There in the shadows of side door he passed, a bright face beamed up at him proudly.

Without thinking, Thomas threw his arms around the younger man, in a spontaneous expression of relief. "You made it!"

"'Course," Ian seemed confused as the surprised reaction. "Just like you told me, I waited 'til there was no one about, and then bought me ticket –third class, and was waitin' to join you once the lady was aboard," he reported, waving the slip of paper in evidence.

"Change in plans," Thomas hurriedly explained, happiness quickly shifting to nervousness. "Lady Edith has arrived with my nosy coworker, to take our train to Manchester. If any of them sees you… So, I'll keep them busy, but am going to have ride in another car."

"But this is me first train ride _ever_ …"

"You'll do fine. Just get into the last car once I'm in the next car up. Present your ticket when asked, and don't get to chatty with anyone…"

"I know how the trains works," Ian scolded. "It's just… I wanted you to ride _with_ me, for us to _share_ me first time."

For the first moment since the unexpected companions appeared, Thomas really stopped, his frenzy interrupted by the need to confess a simple truth. His shoulders settled, his face grew warm against the morning chill, and the frenetic stress of sorting everyone safely melted away. "I adore you, Ian Colson."

The whistle blew.

Resisting the urge to take Ian's face into his hands, he instructed, "But for now, I just need you to enjoy the ride; keep your head and hands in; and I'll hear all about it later. The plan remains the same once we're in Manchester."

Ian nodded resignedly.

"I've got to get the luggage on. But," Thomas smiled, "En route, I'll see if I can't figure out some way we can come back _together_."

That earned him a smile, if a sad one. Confident he'd fixed things for at least the moment, he tapped the chilly nose, and returned to ensure the trunks were being loaded correctly. "Careful with that now!"

* * *

"Her Ladyship and Mrs Crawley squared away?" he asked up to his coworker, before pulling himself up beside her in the half-empty carriage and closing the door behind him.

"Of course," she squinted at his doubt, as he settled across from her. "I was more concerned you weren't going to make it. And what a shame that would've been, you missing your big, mysterious adventure."

He smiled insincerely at her smug concern, before they both broke into more honest grins—the day's game underway.

The conductor's whistle signaled just that.

But then, the car door flew open, and in scrambled an apologetic figure, "Sorry! So sorry. Last car's full."

O'Brien was clearly put out as the man pushed past her abruptly, as the train lurched into motion.

Thomas was even more shocked at the man who settled beside him, recognizing the blushing face that emerged as the man's cap came off.

"Sorry," Ian repeated genuinely, with a sheepish smile. "Hope you don't mind if I take the window seat?"


	28. Re-(un)settled

To his credit, Ian never more than glanced at any of the "strangers" in the car he'd joined so last moment. His cap held in one stiff hand, he spent the entire trip with his wide-eyed face pressed against the window.

O'Brien rolled her eyes, and turned quickly to the magazine she'd brought with her. Thomas had said all he likely would, and none of the other passengers was worth her attention, and were unlikely to demand it if she made no eye contact.

Smiling despite himself, Thomas leaned back and closed his eyes, clear on giving the same message of disinterest to most of the car. But he kept his eyes open just enough to witness some of the late arrival's curious joy reflected in the passing countryside.

* * *

"That's our last stop afore Manchester," Thomas shared loudly over O'Brien's protective pages. He hadn't been able to come up with a definite way to get Ian connected with Mrs Crawley if Lady Edith, or now O'Brien, were now going to be present at their intended meeting place. But he could at least be sure that Ian got off quickly at their destination, and hope that Ian would keep out of sight until a safe opportunity arose to appear.

"Oh, is that what the conductor meant by 'next stop, Manchester'?" she snapped at him. "Thank you so much for clarifying."

The young man peering out the window looked over at the sharp tone, nodding quickly as he turned back to his own observations.

"Would you mind seeing Mrs Crawley to the main hall, while I get the luggage together?"

The magazine slammed shut. "I don't work for Mrs Crawley, do I? And I certainly didn't set out today to do your work for ya."

"True enough. Then be sure to fetch her Ladyship with all due haste, and head on to your exciting day together… She's no part of my duties while we're here; so I'll thank you not to tarry and try to make her so."

Her own logic turned against her, O'Brien could only harrumph and clasp her hands. She'd obviously disrupted his schemes for the day, which was a mild success in itself. But her underlying goal was simply to understand, not to derail entirely, his illicit activity. Spending the time with Lady Edith had been a necessary cost of that investigation; it was by no means a desirable end in its own right.

They sat in silence, stewing on how to push but remain connected to the other, until the train pulled to a stop at Manchester London Road station.(1) Despite having only his cap to gather, Ian seemed to ignore Thomas' nods that he should exit quickly, first even, once the door opened. Seeming less excited for being back in the city he had only recently escaped, and in no hurry to rejoin its ranks despite the risks of discovery if he waited, the younger man seemed unconcerned about the slow pace of egress by their car's other and older passengers.

"Ladies first," the man nearest the door nodded to O'Brien.

She tipped her head to his rightful deference and stepped out, as the same man waved Thomas on next, presuming them together given their familiar, if brief, conversation.

But Thomas hesitated, seeing Ian still making no move to leave.

"After you, sir," the other man insisted aloud.

Not wanting to call any additional attention to the short-cropped man, Thomas obliged, but turned back quickly, only to be pushed further away by the two other disembarking men, and pulled by O'Brien's expectant look. "Luggage," he gestured toward the rear of the train, holding his ground that she should see to their First Class cares alone. "I'll meet you in the hall."

With what may have been a growl, O'Brien grudgingly headed along the train to see to their finer fares into the terminal.

Returning his attention to the train, Thomas was surprised to find their car empty, and no sign of Ian. _Well, now I know he can be quick when he wants to be… Let's hope he's as quick on avoiding the women folk lying in wait for us._

A second locomotive pulled up opposite him, and began disgorging its load of people, further crowding the area. Keeping his eyes sharp, Thomas claimed the Crawley trunks from the luggage car and pulled the trunk-piled cart up the length of the platform, and into the huge main hall. Ahead of him, he saw a slightly deflated-looking Lady Edith turn away from Mrs Crawley, an irritated O'Brien cast a glare his way before skulking after her.

"Lady Edith isn't staying?" he surmised as he approached, filled with hope and relief that this was actually the case.

Adjusting her coat for their quick jaunt to the taxicab queue, the native Mancunian calmed his concerns, "Once I could get a word in edgewise, I explained that, with only Mr Crawley there and only during the week at that, our house was in no condition to receive guests; and that I really couldn't impose unexpected visitors onto my later social call. As she's ostensibly come for some Christmas shopping, I suggested instead that she and the lady's maid visit a few reputable streets and stores, and warned her that the Penny Bazaar and Woolworths were popular, but probably too 'value' for her."(2)

Thomas exhaled noticeably, relieved that she'd proactively handled the most significant risk to his—to their plans for the day. "They didn't seem happy; but it's for the best."

"So I thought," she smiled with confidence. "And your cousin?" she asked after their expected companion, glancing at the large station clock.

"He was to meet us here, mam," Thomas assured, glancing around himself. "I expect him along at any moment."

" _He_ is welcome, of course, to join us to the house, where we can drop off these trunks. We can have some tea, and then go separately to our… appointments from there?"

He nodded his agreement and appreciation, curious to see this fascinating woman's own home, and happy to have the agenda underway.

"Thomas!" a new voice cried out through the bustle of the busy room.

Turning toward the main entrance, they saw a familiar face pushing through the crowd wearing a smudge and a large smile.

Ian wrapped his good arm around his "Cousin!," before remembering to remove his hat and bow haltingly to "My lady."

"So good to see another well-mannered gentleman," Isobel chuckled at the young man's clear attempt to behave properly, even if incorrect with this company. She continued as Ian tolerated Thomas' mortified scrubbing at his dirty cheek with a handkerchief, "I was just telling Thomas that we'll first stop by my home, have some tea, and then carry on from there. How does that sound?"

Ian nodded, checking with the older man that this was a good course of action. "That sounds splendid; thank you, mam."

"Excellent. Shall we?" Isobel headed out to the street.

"Help me with the cart?" Thomas asked with a wink.

Ian nodded, and put his good shoulder into the stack.

"Well done on the entrance and introduction," Thomas smiled back at him.

"You told me I couldn't let the others see me; so I let you all go ahead, and took my time through the crowd up the far side of the platform, waited until they were well gone, and then went round to make it look like I was comin' from outside."

"And the dirt?" _My brilliant man…_

"I'm a poor city boy, right? How many of them are kept as nice as you keep me?"

"Smudge-cheeked but silver-tongued, you… How are you, being back here?"

The grin faded; and Ian took a deep breath as they stepped out into the busy downtown. "I'm glad you're here with me; no other way I'd do it."

Thomas smiled, hoping both their confidences would hold once they soon had to separate.

* * *

"Ian?" their well-dressed guide asked as the cramped taxicab hurried them south, past the University and the new hospital, toward the new Platt Fields Park. "Have you not been to these parts of the city before?"

Ian pulled himself away from views of sweeping lawns and grand estates, to shake his head. The Oxford Road, Rusholme and Fallowfield areas were certainly beyond his experience, and perhaps, his imagination.(3)

Thomas beamed at him as he pivoted back to the spectacle, almost wanting to laugh aloud at the tangibly happy awe.

"If it weren't for all the luggage, we'd have taken the tram you saw. I'll have the lesser return luggage taken to the station directly; and we shall take the tram back up to the Royal Infirmary I pointed out. Ah, here we are!"

The car pulled up in front of a row of considerably less grand, but still quite impressive and neat row houses. The neighborhood was well beyond both orphanage and country village.

"I'm afraid there's no staff here, Thomas. Could I trouble you to supervise the driver's getting the trunks upstairs, while I put on some tea?"

He could tell that she hated to ask him to do this while away from the Abbey, perhaps at all. But neither she nor Ian could move them; and she did make him manager.

She nodded gratefully to his agreement, passed him some coins to pay the driver, and gave specific instructions as she pulled a ring of keys from her bag. "The lighter ones into the bedroom on the right; and Mr Crawley's darker ones in the room to the left."

Leaving the front door open to the obvious main stairs, she turned Ian into the formal sitting room, more modest than any Grantham home she'd frequented of late. "Can you make us a fire? Everything you'll need should be there. I'll see to the tea," and she disappeared past the dining room through a door to the kitchen.

He'd gotten it roaring by the time Thomas settled with and shut the door behind the cabman. He warmed his hands, and turned to find the taller man leaning in the doorway.

Thomas had quickly taken in the simple luxuries of the late physician's home, critically comparing the furnishings to his own his tastes, and imagining what he would do when such a house were his. And, coming down, he'd found a handsome man dutifully warming the hearth, and looking very pleased to see him. He could certainly grow accustomed to this suburban home scene.

Seeing Thomas wistful, Ian joined him at the door, and took his hand, "Is this what you've dreamt of? What you imagine livin' in? It's posh…," he whispered, glancing around the room and up the stairwell.

Oblivious now to the decor and trappings, Thomas ran his thumb across the back of Ian's chilly hand. "Maybe she left the keys, and just kept goin'. I'd have everythin' I'd ever need."

Ian blushed and tightened his grip. "Now who's silver-tongued…? But," his face dropped, "Not here. Not in this city."

The kitchen door opened with a loud "I'm afraid Mr Crawley has already finished the milk, and we shan't have another delivery until tomorrow evening, when he's back for the work week." She refused to let the professional footman take the tray, and shushed them to the loveseat. "I am sorry if it is 'improper', Thomas; but you and Ian are guests in _my_ home, where _I_ serve the tea. Sit and enjoy; that's an order."

With appropriate "thanks" exchanged for cups, biscuits, and napkins, the two gentlemen-for-the-day waited until their hostess was seated, and then carefully perched on the polished and upholstered mahogany.

"It's a lovely home, Mrs Crawley," Thomas shared honestly.

"Thank you. Though it now seems rather plain in comparison to the family buildings in Downton..."

"How many people live here?" Ian instantly regretted asking, as Thomas shot him quite the look.

Though taken a little aback at the bluntness of the question, Isobel reminded herself that the younger man was simply showing interest, if roughly exhibited. "Three, originally. Though now it's just Matthew, my son, while he's working here during the week. And I come back some days each month. Should we come to Downton permanently, I suppose we'll have to decide whether to keep it..."

Thomas chewed his biscuit vigorously and smiled uncomfortably, both at her having been put on the spot, and at the privilege she'd exposed in casually having multiple housing options.

"And, as I don't think I've asked previously, in what part of the city do you live, Ian?"

"Strangeways," the boy answered honestly, before Thomas could swallow. "The prison is the biggest house on my street," he grinned, hoping the dark humour would still lighten the mood he'd clearly created.(4)

"Haha," she laughed, genuinely amused by the funny forthrightness of Thomas' cousin.

Thomas sighed that she wasn't insulted, and made a note to school the up-and-coming gentleman on better conversation-making.

"Well, I shall hope none of us should have reason to visit there today or at any other time," the lady of the house smiled, and nodded to the mantle clock. "But we do need to head back toward town very shortly. At half-one, Ian and I are expected by Dr Lennox, a colleague of my late husband's. He's agreed to have a look at your arm, while Thomas tends to some… errands of his own."

Ian's mouth fell open; and eyes full of abandonment, he turned to the flushed Thomas, "You're not comin' with me?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Now Manchester Piccadilly, the city's main rail station.
> 
> 2\. At the time of the story, Marks & Spencer Penny Bazaar and Woolworths value stores were open in downtown Manchester, but these early department stores—like Lewis's and Paulden's also—were seen as more middle/lower class compared to high end, specialty stores that wealthier clientele were likely to frequent.
> 
> 3\. You can follow Oxford Road south from downtown Manchester, past/through these areas, to what was a burgeoning area for middle/upperclass families at this time. Fallowfield is now best known for its large University student housing estates.
> 
> 4\. Now HM Prison Manchester, is located in the northwest area of the city, and was opened in 1868.


	29. Dispersion

Ian's eyes and cheeks burned with disappointment and anger, as Thomas saw he'd also guessed at his angel's separate, and secret, intentions.

"I'm sorry, Ian," Isobel said, looking to and meaning Thomas as well. "I- I-"

"Mrs Crawley has gone to great trouble to have this doctor see you," Thomas turned toward Ian and calmly presumed the true foundation for a greater, but equally probable lie. "He's agreed as a personal favor to her; and having someone else along with you was not part of their arrangement. I know it's not ideal; but beyond being so generous, Mrs Crawley is a nurse herself. I trust her to make sure you're well taken care of; and I'll join you a little later this afternoon."

Ian looked to the nodding host, not disbelieving her intentions; but not liking being without his guardian in this city, much less in such a vulnerable situation. "I've never seen a doctor," he reminded, hoping they might be swayed by an admission of how novel and nervous-making the visit would be, and how much more important it was than Thomas' clandestine activities.

In as much physical connection as he dared in mixed company, Thomas put his hand behind Ian's neck, stroking the close cropped hair. "You are strong; she is good; and this will make you better..." He meant more of the day's intentions than just the medical examination. "Please?"

"You promised…" _Nothing more about my past._ The dark eyes burrowed into him for a more reassuring understanding. "Why?"

Thomas knew full well that Ian meant more than the honest apprehension over the hospital visit, anxiety-producing as that was. But he knew the larger stakes, and greater potential, for his other two appointments; and he needed Ian to trust his long-range actions more than to rely on his short-term presence. He glanced at their audience, who seemed concerned, not suspicious, and whispered simply, "Angel."

Isobel's brow wrinkled at the odd utterance; but seeing Ian sigh, swallow and nod, she understood that some core commitment had been invoked between the relations.

Ian cleared his throat and turned to her, asking quietly, "You don't think they'll… take me arm, or-?"

"My dear boy, no!" Isobel exclaimed, believing she now understood the root of his reluctant reaction. She walked over and added her soothing hand to his good shoulder. "Is that what you've worried over; I'm so sorry. No! You're able to move the arm and fingers; so I promise it's just a matter of mending, not taking, the arm."

She looked to Thomas with an apology that the younger man had carried that worry. "But we should be on our way. Thomas, would you mind returning the tea service to the kitchen while I gather my things?"

"My pleasure," he nodded to the non-presumptive request, and released Ian's neck with a quick squeeze and wink.

"Just set it on the table, and we'll see to it when we return. Just through there, thank you," she called. Turning back to Ian, Isobel suddenly noticed, and asked without judgment, "Do you not have a coat beyond this one jacket I've seen you in now twice?" His embarrassed shake sent her quickly to a small closet off the main hallway, from which she returned brushing off a nice, if dated long coat.

"Try this on. It was Matthew's when he was smaller. Carefully," she helped with the bad arm, explaining as she settled it on him and sized him up, "I _am_ sorry Thomas isn't able to join us. I hadn't realized _how_ important he was to you."

"He's all I have, mam."

"What of your family?" She fixed the lapels with motherly fuss, as she likely had with its previous occupant.

Ian shook his head, "Only him."

She looked up from her satisfied match, with a sad expression that she promptly forced to reassurance. "Then… Downton Abbey are not the only ones lucky enough to have him so devoted."

"Ready?" Thomas appeared.

"I think we are," Isobel matched Ian's shy smile. "Just let me freshen up. I'll only be a moment," and she stepped upstairs quickly.

"Did she just give you that coat?" Thomas stepped up to make his own adjustments on the lapels.

"I think so… Or maybe she's lent it," Ian confessed. "I don't understand why she's being so nice."

"Best not to poke, lest you pop the bubble," Thomas tutted, as he pulled something from his own jacket pocket. "Here's some money. It's not likely enough to settle any bill; I expect the… good lady," he admitted aloud again, "will also have covered this expense. But you _should_ pull this out, and make at least an effort to pay; you'll look all the more honourable. And if I've somehow misjudged her, then tell her I'll cover the difference quick as I can."

"But you've no-" Ian tried to protest.

Making sure they were still alone, Thomas cupped his hand on Ian's cheek, silencing him with the gentle press of thumb on lips. "I'll have more by the time we meet later."

Ian looked cross and perplexed at the day's plans whirling around him without his full knowledge or agreement. He couldn't deny his need, or fault the generosity of these benefactors; but he also didn't have to like the process that merely dragged him along. As Mrs Crawley made noises of re-emerging from the upper rooms, he placed his hand on Thomas' and asked, "Smile for me, really smile, so I know you're truly happy with all this." _If you are, I can be,_ he needn't say aloud.

Seeing the honesty of Mrs Crawley's unpatronizing charity, and knowing the relief the afternoon's visits would hopefully bring to Ian, Thomas smiled adoringly. The parts of the visit that Ian wouldn't like were necessary for the larger good, and moreover, were well-earned by those involved. He could smile openly and honestly at the doors that would close, and more importantly open, for Ian this day. How could he not smile at that?

Relieved at the genuine grin he received, Ian returned it, leading Mrs Crawley to smile herself as she descended the stairs and joined them. "Shall we?"

Coats, gloves, scarves and hats applied, the trio walked the few brisk blocks to the main road, with Mrs Crawley sharing tidbits on the occupants and architects of the larger homes they passed.

A tram was approaching as they reached the stop; and so Thomas took the moment to take his leave as Mrs Crawley pulled out fare for two. "I'll meet you close to four as I can. You be good," he pulled Ian in for a quick hug and peck on the hat. "And thank you again, Mrs Crawley, for everything."

Trusting to board, but not breaking eye contact even as they pulled way, Ian watched as Thomas faded into the dreary distance.

Still at the stop, Thomas took a deep breath and turned back into the nice neighborhood for his first unpleasant, if pleasurable, solo errand.

* * *

"I'm afraid her Ladyship has made no mention to me of a change in the quantity of her post." O'Brien's voice betrayed none of the contempt her face showed, as the middle Grantham daughter continued to babble ahead of her as they made their way past the shop windows along the nearest of the suggested high-end streets. "But then I am not usually present when the posts arrive or at meals; nor am I typically in or around Lady Mary's room." _Obviously._

"Oh," Edith sighed with some disappointment, before dismissing the unsatisfying answer and its question. "Well, it's nothing, really. I simply had noticed, and wondered…"

"Begging your Ladyship's pardon," O'Brien stopped walking. "But I was under the impression we'd come along today to… keep an eye on Mrs Crawley and Thomas, not Lady Mary. Have I misunderstood?"

Edith turned with no small horror at the lady's maid's blunt broach of their subterfuge; and she stepped back toward the unflinching, taller woman, "Well of course we have; but we needn't speak of it so openly."

"My apologies," O'Brien didn't apologize, before whispering dutifully, "May I also ask then, why we've let them send us off so handily? It might be easier to… observe them, if we could _see_ them."

"That's true, of course. I just hadn't expected to be dispatched so suddenly, as you say. And I don't know this city well, and must come back with some purchases, else the whole family will have every reason to know our true purpose in coming…"

O'Brien forced herself to smirk and nod knowingly, commiserating. More honestly, she gripped her hands so tight they hurt; patience's products were not without their trying payments. But she only looked about, leaned in and offered instead, "I know this trip is important to your Ladyship, that's why I suggested it as I did. And, if I might be so bold, I may have another way to help..."

Edith's eyes lit up with a new hope for the clandestine mission.

Seeing success alight there, O'Brien sold her idea. "You can remain here, shopping as you like; so that we can be honest about that purpose and passing of time. I have some knowledge of this city, and some ideas on where at least our young detective Thomas may be headed, on your behalf I believe. If you feel you'd be good on your own here, and if it would help, well, I could… see if I might be able to keep an eye on him for you…"


	30. Cold cash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter for its importance... And belated thanks to all the members and guests who've given "kudos" along the way. Those, and reviews, are great muses; please keep 'em coming!

The large house's ornate door finally opened, to reveal a sharply dressed butler who looked more than inclined to dress down the unexpected, and tidy but underdressed caller. The servant was handsome, if beginning to show his age—clearly more grown and gruff than bright and boyish. Giving Thomas a once over of his own, the man asked "May I help you?" in what was obviously an affected upper class accent.

"Ah yes," Thomas responded in a better rendition of a less haughty tone, "Would you be the Baron Greenhalgh?"

"No, sir. I am his butler, Bowers." That butler's face grew even more grim, at having to explain his more than obvious role to this apparently uncultured stranger.

"Of course," Thomas laughed at his intentional ignorance, before adding flattery to the mix. "I merely assumed a fine looking gentleman such as yourself…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, I am here to see the Baron Greenhalgh. The head man at Strangeways youth home gave me his name, said I might find an arrangement the good Baron has had with them, to be well-suited to my… charitable tastes."

Bowers visibly flinched at the mention of the children's home, and darkened all the more at the visitor's interest in his household's relations with it. "The Baron is a humble man, sir; and not one to discuss his philanthropic undertakings openly. I think it best you discuss yours with the charity directly. Good day." He made to shut the door even as he spoke.

But Thomas was expecting the active disinterest, and shoved his foot into the shrinking space, adding some clear resolve into his still polite voice. "I'm not police, if that's what you're worried about; but I'll come back with them, and a photographer, if that's what it takes to have his Lordship see me. And I don't think any of us wants that; do we, Bowers?"

Doubt and concern overtook the disdain on the butler's face, and his hold on the door relaxed.

"I guarantee that both you and your master will appreciate our moving this scene indoors _now_ ," Thomas let more and more heat enter his voice as he gave orders. "You can tell his Lordship that I bullied my way in if you like; but I'll see him now no matter whether he's awake, dressed or otherwise indisposed."

"Your name, sir?" the man asked, not committing to any course of action except to know who was troubling him.

"Thomas… Thomas Colson."

Bowers' eyes flashed wide; and he gave no resistance as Thomas pushed his way over the threshold. Recovering, he made a stand between the insistent visitor and the hall beyond the entry. "I will see whether-"

"Perhaps I wasn't clear," Thomas interrupted, politely removing his hat. "You can announce me, and remain if you like; but you will take me to his Lordship directly. Now."

Bowers looked at him with the same quiet face and busy mind that Downton's own Mister Carson used when facing difficult guests. Assessing the risks of further resistance as higher than his master's displeasure at the intrusion, Bowers stepped aside and closed the outer door with a quick glance for who else might have witnessed even the brief exchange.

Closing the inner door, he did not offer to take Thomas' hat or coat, but instead pushed past him brusquely. The 'don't get comfortable; you won't be staying long' message was clear.

Thomas noted, however, that not all of the interior crystal was. As he kept up with the fast-moving butler—probably hoping to have a quick word with the boss before the visitor could, Thomas could see that the furnishing were top notch, but the housekeeping was lacking. Through the main hall, ornate tables, grand portraits and intricate chandeliers and sconces were showing their age and neglect. Likely the house matched its master's decline.

Not wanting to like either, Thomas thought even less of the butler who shouldn't let things slip regardless, and of the old codger who didn't know better. He was all the happier to help along their merciful demise. _But no mercy just yet…_

Not letting Bowers keep him outside the door while announcing him, Thomas followed him in to what may have been a warm study and receiving room at one time. Like the once grand main hall, it now was simply warm, musty and cluttered. And prime among the antiquities collecting there, perched at a teetering desk covered in yellowed parchments, was the Lord of the manor—a small, wiry man overdressed for the times and the room's temperature, who looked up from his papers at the unexpected interruption with an already sour face.

"What the devil is this?"

"I am sorry, your Lordship," Bowers excused very honestly. "This… man insists on seeing you immediately, under threat of returning with the police."

The old man squinted to assess the invader.

Anticipating the question, the butler further offered, "He says his name is Thomas… Colson, sir."

The older man was slightly better at managing his reaction to the name. He pretended to be entirely uninterested, still simply bothered, "Do I know you?"

"You don't need to, honestly," Thomas finally injected, moving past the butler to face the butlee as well. "All you need know… is that I know the truth behind your arrangement with the Strangeways Youth Charity Society. I don't know many boys you've had them shelter, stunt and deliver to you; but I know everything that you did to one of them: an Ian Colson."

"What _are_ you on about?!" the old man demanded angrily, though clearly more agitated than one would expect a consummate gentleman to be merely by a surprise, rambling caller.

 _The Earl would have maintained his composure much better,_ Thomas thought before continuing, "I'm on about _this_ , your Lordship: I know the police have found you, and tied you to a bloody jacket, handkerchief and single shoe found along the road to Newcastle earlier this month. I know you reported these were simply gifts for your nephew, used by you and your man to pull the car from the mud.

"But I also know that you _have_ no living nephew, in Newcastle or elsewhere; and," Thomas turned to give the butler an obvious look, "your 'driver' shows no sign of such serious wounds. Moreover, you both failed to report that the car was not actually stuck, but was in fact blocked by a tree, put there by three brigands, to whom you abandoned the youngest member of your party—whom you failed to mention to the police entirely.

"Or perhaps you paid the police not to pursue the matter too closely. Or you paid the pub staff to forget the young man too," he pondered aloud. "I don't really care about those details; but I'm certain that, through it all, you painted yourself the hapless victim somehow… And I'm here to see that you make amends for it all."

"This is preposterous," the older, reddened face spat at him. "How _dare_ you come in to my home making such claims and accusations! Bowers, send for the police at once!"

"Yes, please do." Thomas remained very calm, his tone and terms stopping the servant in his tracks. "Let's have them come back to see you explain all the holes in your story, better than you did the holes in that jacket. Or the blood stains on this." From his coat, Thomas pulled and unwrapped a ragged, muddied, but recognizably dapper shoe.

"Rubbish!" the old man judged, on every level, before seeming to regain control himself, becoming more dismissive than distressed. "You've done nothing more than produce an old shoe and a wondrous story, easily cobbled from police reports and warped by a _criminal_ imagination. Do you _really_ think you're the first despicable character to appear at my door, hoping for a handout? Ha!" he actually chuckled. "Fie on you and your pathetic attempt at thievery. Bowers, throw him out…"

Thomas signaled the butler to wait, and chuckled himself, gently twisting an errant lace back into place. "I've only brought the shoe, because I am not about to let Ian himself anywhere near you again." He looked back up at the aged aristocrat, eye-to-eye. "You see, unlike the police, I _have_ the third member of your Newcastle party, who could fill in a lot more from that night than just the shoe and jacket. Who'd _like_ to share that story…"

In the corner of Thomas' eye, the butler paled noticeably; and before him, the angry elder sank back into his chair, with shock quickly becoming sadness.

The Baron set aside the newspaper and clasped his hands, "You found Ian?"

"Your Lordship!" the butler tried to warn, but was waved down.

Lord Greenhalgh cast his eyes into the fire and his memory seemed to follow. He swallowed and whispered, "The brigands carried him off into the night."

"Which you didn't bother to tell the police?"

"I've been looking…"

"Rubbish!" Thomas turned his dismissal back on him. "You drove off while they held him, and didn't look back. You did nothing that night except abandon him; and you've not lifted a single ringed finger since, beyond lying to the police about his very existence, and then only after they tracked you down."

The accusation's fire melted the sadness from the Baron's face; and he looked back to Thomas with a cool, clockwork gaze.

For the first time in their brief exchange, Thomas felt that he was facing the true, actual Baron. That he was being sized up by him. Whatever calculations had gone into creating Ian's situation, the old man's full attention and consideration were now being applied on how to handle the boy's avenging angel.

Not willing to grant any ground or time to response, Thomas continued the string of charges. "And, _your Lordship_ , I'd guess that night was just a bad end to a long list of your orphan 'rescues'… I know your people at the home groomed him for you—gave him little schooling, no trade training, held him from self-reliance longer than most boys, before being turned over to you, without much knowledge of the larger world or ways to survive on his own. I know how you dressed him up nice, gave him a beautiful room and bed upstairs, and then… undressed him in it." Thomas realized he was wrenching the shoe in obvious show of his feelings around the transgressions of this place. Casting a glance at the ashen butler, he added, "And I've good mind to guess he wasn't the first young man whose innocence you stole."

Bowers looked down and away from them both, while Greenhalgh's expression didn't change through the litany. Admitting nothing, suggesting nothing, he simply glared and asked, "What is it you want, 'Mister Colson'?"

"I shall be quick," Thomas smiled, having tipped the balance enough against the old man to be worth being rid of, however true and tangible his story or proof. "As I am expected by some… companions, who will bring the police here if I don't meet them soon."

He placed the shoe back in the coat pocket, and resumed his pleasant, businesslike stance and tone, as he ticked off his demands. "You can't undo what you've done to Ian; but you can ease his future, and not repeat the sins. So, you may continue donating to Strangeways and any other charities, but the rest of your orphan 'relations' are over. You'll have no further contact with any of the wards, or allow those slave traders to groom or deliver any more victims to your or others' stables."

Bowers almost snorted at the description.

Inwardly counting the point, Thomas outwardly ignored him. "And, as a—let's say—'reward' for my not going to the press or police with evidence of all your schemes, you will write out a bank draft now to Strangeways, in an amount you feel commensurate with your transgressions. Go ahead. Bowers, please assist your master if he needs it."

Thomas stepped aside, waving the butler toward the desk, and nodding them both to get on with it.

The Baron didn't move for a moment, again assessing the seriousness of the man and his threats. That Bowers had jumped to it without delay suggested he'd already decided for the larger victory in this slight surrender. Greenhalgh looked up to the handy butler, and around at the venerable room. "My house is humbled compared to its history; but we are not ended. And I will protect its good name," he vowed.

"Of course," Thomas nodded.

"I admit to nothing," the old man insisted.

"I've not asked you to," Thomas replied with no hesitation. For all the satisfaction a confession would bring him, it accomplished nothing for a young man who wouldn't hear it anyway.

Slowly opening his ledger, the Baron grudgingly took the pen handed to him, and turned to the ticket spread out for him.

As he grumbled a few numbers on in, Thomas interrupted with an additional instruction. "Now add a nought at the end."

"What?!" both other men scoffed, both annoyed at any rise in cost to buy the visitor's silence.

"By your own mouth, I hadn't expected your reputation to be worth so little…" Thomas shook his head sadly, before reminding, "We could debate it until the police arrive."

As the butler glared and the baron harrumphed, the latter paused before signing the order of magnitude-larger than intended cheque. "What guarantee do I have that you won't simply come back for more once you've squandered this?"

"First, you'll note that, by your hand, it's not made out to me. And beyond that, I suppose you have nothing beyond my word. So, let me also guarantee that, if this note isn't honoured, if you so much as _touch_ another child from any care home, or if you stop supporting the homes at your current level minus your lecherous conditions, then I _will_ return with constables and reporters like a plague of hungry flies on your carcass and kingdom."

Not doubting the resolve of the angry angel before him, Greenhalgh put his flourish on the slip, and handed it over contemptuously.

"A prudent investment, your Lordship," Thomas smiled with equal disdain. "You mark my words, the both of you; and this will surely be the end of it. I'll see myself out."

"By the way," he turned in the doorway, as if remembering suddenly. "One detail from that stormy night I just haven't been able to work out… How _did_ those three brutes know to find you on _that_ road on _that_ night in _that_ weather? Now there's a mystery… Oh, and Bowers, I'd almost forgotten, speaking of that area, Willy and the boys from Leeds send their regards."

He tipped his head and closed the door behind him, leaving them to sort out his meaning between them.

* * *

"Mister 'Colson,'" the Baron's voice echoed around him, the name dripping with doubt.

Thomas turned in the inner door, to find the Baron at the table halfway up the grand hall behind him as if by magic, though leaning and breathing heavily for the effort. Despite this, the old man had him fixed again in a cold stare. "Your dedication to this boy, or at least his cause, is admirable. And you obviously think yourself a clever man for concocting and carrying out this petty extortion. I'd like to add an unrequested, parting gift, if I may... Let me suggest you reconsider your alliance with the darling angel, if you even know him."

Thomas cocked his head, disappointed at this weak, attempted last blow from the defeated gentleman.

"Whatever he may have told you," Greenhalgh continued, growing more smug as he spoke, "I'd guess he hasn't mentioned whether I was the first doting patron he'd chased, the first home and pocket into which he'd warmed his way. Didn't explain why we were going to Newcastle that night, or why we were in such a hurry to get him there. No? I didn't think so. No, the story he's told you obviously painted him the 'hapless victim,' like you've accused me.

"I'll not bore you with the details of how he gained this old man's attention and affections, as I expect your nefarious character can devise them easily enough. I'll only say that we were _glad_ for the opportunity to be rid of him that night, and remain in no hurry to retrieve him, to be sure."

Greenhalgh pulled himself upright and shook his hand toward the departing advocate, with as much finality as feeling. "As you relish your newfound wealth, I suggest that you consider how easily I gave it, to be fully done with him. And that you tally everything you've willingly given him since you've known him… What costs have you incurred? What risks have you taken? What badges do you now carry beyond his cursed name?"

The cold house had grown infinitely colder.

"In any case, per your own terms, our business is complete. Whatever you do with that draft, sir, he is now _your_ problem, and yours alone. So I wish you the best with him, as you're clearly made for one another."


	31. Examinations

"You've really never been seen by a doctor? Thank you," Isobel asked as Ian held the door for her. "Not once?"

"No, mam," he answered, staring around the bustling, polished space. "Well, maybe at me birth; but I don't much recall that either way."

She chuckled again at the innocent honesty this worldly, working class young man seemed to possess. None of the airs and layers of Downton, or even of some of her previous social circles in this town. He also wasn't so stiff and afraid to be human as the estate staff tended towards, even if for understandable, professional reasons. She could see why Thomas so enjoyed his presence.

"Skiagraphy?" she asked at the reception desk, giving the details of their appointment.(1)

They were escorted through the pristine building of white and red, to the correct wing and floor, and left to wait on the doctor in a hallway intersection.

"As I mentioned on the tram," Isobel explained with some glee, "they've been in this building for only four years; we passed the old site as we left the train station earlier. I must admit, I am excited to see more of the facilities, as I've only been for events, and only in some parts."

Ian nodded obligingly, but still seemed unimpressed, nervous, even distracted.

"You mustn't worry," Isobel tried to reassure with a pat on his good arm. "Birmingham may be better known; but they've the latest in medical technologies here as well. And Doctor Lennox is not only a good friend, but also one of the top physicians in the northwest. I promise, you're in the very best of hands."

"I do appreciate, mila- Mrs Crawley…"

"But?" she sighed sympathetically, knowing there would be one.

He gave her his longest eye contact since they boarded the tram. "Do you know where Thomas has gone? Why he wouldn't come with us?" His eyes jumped fretfully back to a door opening down the hall, only to see a uniformed woman who headed away from them.

"I don't know the specifics, truly; only that he's on business for the Granthams." Though he nodded, sadly, Isobel could tell that it bothered Ian greatly that his only family would choose work over his wellness. Could tell how much he had been counting on Thomas' presence for strength and support. "If it's any consolation," she fudged the truth a little, "He only agreed to the task when he knew I would bring you here today; it was a non-negotiable condition for this trip. So, please don't think his not being here is any indication of a lack of concern."

Ian looked up at her with some real surprise, and a relieved smile. He visibly relaxed a little as well, knowing his devoted cousin was watching out for him, even if not in person at this exact moment.

In hopes of buoying his spirits even further, Isobel dared to share a little secret with him. "And, I'd intended to save this news until we met up with him again; but I think it might help with your nerves now…" She turned toward him, and leaned in a little. "In just this morning's post, which thankfully arrived before we set out, I heard back from another friend. In London. At a publishing house. Apparently, there are some new men and monies in the industry of late; and everyone is eager to find new talent so as to compete better…"

She was losing him. "I can't claim to understand it all myself. But my point is, they are _very_ impressed by the sketches you did when visiting me. And they'd like you to come to London, soon, to speak with them about a position doing pamphlets and posters, maybe more."

It took a moment for her news to sink in enough for his face to lighten and his smile to return, to match her own. "A position? In London? Thank you…" His smile faltered as quickly, and his gaze went out the window toward the busy streets, and a man about on them. "London?"

"Isobel?" a deep, cheerful voice called from the hallway. "Isobel Crawley! Bless me, it is you!"

They both turned to find a white-bearded man rushing toward them with his hands outstretched.

The invoked friend stood to return the greeting; and Ian jumped up out of polite habit.

"Doctor Lennox, so good to see you as well," she traded kisses on the cheek.

"David, please?" the man in the beard-matched coat reminded. "It's been too long, indeed; but not _that_ long. And you must be our Mister Barrow?"

"I am, sir," Ian smiled at the introduction, almost bowing out of recently learned habit, before simply extending his left hand.

Initially surprised by the wrong hand proffered, the physician realized, "Of course, you're here about your _right_."

"Indeed we are, David. I wanted him to see only the best!" Isobel beamed between them.

"Well," the plump man apologized through smiling eyes, "I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me… Do come back this way."

He led them off down the corridor, as Isobel continued her reunion. "And how are Betsy and the girls?"

* * *

"Ian, can I have you take your shirt off, please?" Doctor Lennox asked, as he pulled the partition to behind them, closing them off from the larger ward.

Ian looked immediately to the older, unrelated woman standing with them.

"I'll just step out a moment," she smiled knowingly.

"Wait?" Ian asked. He seemed even more concerned about being left with the even less known physician.

"Mrs Crawley is a trained nurse," the doctor reminded them both. "Mr Barrow, if you don't mind terribly, perhaps we could have her opinion as well. And it'll only be your shirt…"

The young man nodded nervously, and then did his best remove his jacket, vest and outer shirt without grimacing much or groaning at all.

Behind him, the old friends and colleagues traded polite smiles and knowing glances. Isobel restrained herself from jumping in and mothering; they both knew well the fragility of a young man's pride, especially an injured one.

Finally down to his sleeveless undershirt, Ian turned and sat down again on the chair.

Lennox brought the lamp and his own chair closer, and explained as he gave the patient an initial once over. "No obvious external contusions or lingering discolouration remain. I'm going to feel around the shoulder joint, and move it around a little—to get a sense of what the damage is. Apologies if my old hands are a little cold," he chuckled. "And, to make it even more awkward, I'll ask you some questions as I do… Just relax, and tell me, how did you injure your arm?"

"I tripped steppin' up on a curb, sir. Landed on it."

"He said he was trying to avoid a car on the road," Isobel added helpfully. "And there do seem to be more and more, each time I'm here. It's almost as bad as London."

"And how long ago was this?" Lennox asked, as he prodded on all sides of the shoulder, and manipulated Ian's arm–both earning winces, even a glare from the young man.

"A little more than three weeks, sir."

"And you haven't done anything about it in that time?"

"I haven't used it much. Couldn't. But it were me own fault it happened, and... I had no money to pay for a visit."

"And you couldn't work with this type of injury, I'd suppose," Isobel assured.

Ian gave all affirmative nods to that, and each deduction that followed.

"I presume you hadn't had any problems with this shoulder prior to your accident? I see that it still hurts you considerably, even some when still? And I'll bet you've found it least uncomfortable to try sleeping while sitting up? And, for several days after it initially happened, it was swollen, bruised-looking and excruciating to move?"

Lennox gently rested the arm back at Ian's side, scribbled some notes on his clipboard, and looked up at them both. "Well, Mister Barrow, that you can move it at all is a good sign. However, there is still some internal swelling and tenderness, which means it's only _looking_ better after more than a fortnight, and only on the outside… But the shoulder is a very complicated place; and to understand more clearly what's happened, and how it is now, we're going to have to look inside. Have you heard of an 'x-ray machine'?"

Ian nodded again, his face no less concerned for amputation not being the next step, perhaps even glummer as he admitted an altogether different concern, "I have, sir. Thank you, sir. But… as Mrs Crawley said, I haven't worked since…"

Dr Lennox held his hand up, again anticipating the concern. "I expect Mrs Crawley has told you that this equipment is rather new, not just for us. Today's visit is given with our compliments, for letting our staff improve their skills."

Ian looked to the lady for some confirmation that he understood.

"Me thanks again, sir, mam; truly. But I cannot take your charity," he dug into his jacket, as he'd been instructed. "I have some money, and can get…"

"Ian," Isobel took his good arm, as the doctor stepped out to "check the equipment is ready." She pushed the small wad of bills back into the pocket, and stood him upright. "I ought to have been clearer when explaining. Dr Lennox does take a number of patients for the new machines at no charge. They really are just trying to give their people more experience on them, as well as build public confidence in the procedures. This is no charity; you're doing them and the city a service…"

Ian looked unconvinced, with perhaps a little fear returning about facing the 'under-practiced, public-frightening procedures.'

"If you must pay for something, why don't you buy me a pastry later, when we meet Thomas? You can treat us both to something warm and wildly sweet to celebrate all today's good news and accomplishments? Would you do that, for me?"

He swallowed and smiled his bashful best. Focusing beyond the machine, on seeing Thomas. That he could do.

* * *

"Thank you, Carson. And, where is Lady Edith?" her mother asked as she took her seat for a luncheon that was clearly short one daughter, and one first footman.

The Earl looked up from his paper with genuine surprise.

Mary and Sybil looked up at one another, wide-eyed.

William paused in approaching the table with the first course.

Carson waved him on, irritated only at the unexpected hiccup to the meal's flow. Calmly as ever, he reminded, "I understand that her Ladyship has gone to Manchester, I presume with Mrs Crawley, along with Thomas and Mrs O'Brien."

Mid-glide, the Lady Grantham stopped the graceful application of her napkin to her lap. Her eyes scanned the faces of the family, as her hands balled the serviette in proxy for the neck she was imagining.

"Was I not clear with _everyone_ at this table, that Mrs Crawley had asked for Thomas' assistance with a very specific errand today, and that this was _not_ to be an opportunity for a caravan to the city? Was I not?"

"You said we mustn't accompany cousin Isobel, mama," Sybil clarified, a little confused at the apparent trouble. "As Edith said, you'd not actually forbid also going to Manchester today. Independently-"

Her father's look suggested she stop explaining.

"Did you know she was going?" Cora's attention was nonetheless turned on her remaining daughters. "Either of you?"

"Mama, she _is_ twenty," Mary evaded. "You can hardly-"

"I _can_ , and I _did_ ," the mother corrected quickly. "And I expected my meaning was clear, not subject to some grasping hair-splitting one might try with my words. Robert, did _you_ know she had gone?"

"I hadn't realized she'd left the house until this very conversation," he admitted honestly, before offering some pragmatic consolation. "But, we've no way to reach her, save dispatching more of the house to Manchester. And she is with Mrs O'Brien."

"And, pray tell, does anyone know _why_ she has gone to Manchester?"

"I presume to do some Christmas shopping in private, and away from our typical York or London sellers…," Mary said, with some small admiration for the thoughtfulness, and the disobedience. "Much as I expect why cousin Isobel took Thomas to pick out some decent fashion for cousin Matthew." That she felt he desperately needed some such intervention, she graciously left unsaid.

Cora glared at Robert, guessing there was much more to the Isobel-Edith secret sojourn connection than Mary had spoken.

He looked to Carson for some intervention, or at least distraction.

"I do apologize, milady," the butler dutifully waded in. "Mrs O'Brien had already asked for her half-day after seeing your Ladyship up this morning; and we were not aware that your Ladyship had instructed Lady Edith not to travel. We do expect Mrs O'Brien back in time to dress your Ladyship for dinner…"

"Excellent," the lady of the house proclaimed, with anything but positivity in her voice. "Until then, let me be very clear that no one else from this house is to set off for the city, for any reason or by any means. And, I should like Lady Edith and O'Brien brought to me _immediately_ upon their return. Am I clear?"

Nervous heads around the room nodded in understanding.

Taking a breath, and nodding to the safely distanced footman, Lady Grantham returned with grace and a smile. "I should very much like to be the first to welcome them back, and hear about their 'creative' adventures."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Skiagraphy was an early term for medical applications of x-rays, that lasted until the end of World War I. Now used only to describe the use of shadowing not of bones, but of materials in architectural and technical drawings.


	32. What Future Follows

From across the street, she watched as Thomas exited the bank with the nervous man in the trying-too-hard suit.

* * *

From across the street, he watched as Thomas exited the bank with the mousy Mister Tutwiler.

* * *

Thomas exited the bank with the nervously priggish warden of the orphanage, glad the man had put up no more fight splitting the cash, than he had in agreeing to come in the first place.

Unlike the Baron, this man was weak and tempted only by _things_ , not crafty and a servant to desires of the flesh. He'd thrown the doors to the Youth Charity Society wide open at the mere suggestion that Greenhalgh had sent another potential "patron," and had promised to seal them as quickly against the old wretch lest a recent escapee take his shoe, and his story, to the authorities and the 'papers.

Less useful were the man's sharings on Ian's past and pastimes. The young man's physical file contained only an admission register—he'd been found on the Home's doorstep in late September 1894, nothing known about either parent—and a note of his voluntary departure—into the employ of one '6th Baron Greenhalgh,' with 'both mature excitement and some reluctance to leave his beloved Strangeways home.' No indication of health, education or behavioural issues, or anything else for all of eighteen years.

That Ian was "very popular with everyone," the staff, the other children and patrons alike, was even less reassuring, if more believable. _"He's friendly, unbecoming, a handsome young man—I'm told."_ No, he hadn't left the home with any other of their supporters. _"Not that we weren't occasionally asked about outings, even adoptions; but…"_ Yes, he'd dutifully visited with, and charmed, many donors and dignitaries. _"He's always been amongst our best ambassadors."_

Through all the anxious smiles and prattle, the warden never directly acknowledged anything untoward, on or by Ian, himself, Greenhalgh, or anyone else. (Well, he'd admitted that Hiram Bowers was a previous placement of theirs with the Baron; so the foul arrangement obviously went back a long time.) But he also made no mention of Ian's lack of expected literacy or skills training, the conceivably normal-childhood scattered scars, or Ian's drawing talent, whether unknown or simply unvalued.

And, so despite being distracted by the Baron's ill-intended questions, and gaining no real evidence against their implications, Thomas had carried out his original plan, and was now walking away with three-quarters of the Baron's gift, as restitution. Assured that was the best—the only—way both to avoid the scandal, and to ensure the newly stringless Greenhalgh patronage, Tutwiler had been all too happy to deposit and unevenly split the money with the mystery 'Mister Colson.'

Eager to be done, and left to his unresolved issues, Thomas stuck out his hand, and squeezed with his coldest smile. "And remember, Milton: I am watching, and will know if _he_ ends his financial contributions, or if _you_ continue your physical deliveries. In either case, I shall return with cameras and constables in such numbers as even your greedy mind cannot imagine. Let's _not_ meet again, shall we?"

Unsure whether "yes" or "no" was the appropriate response to such cheerful threats, the little man mumbled something neutral, swallowed his smile, and dashed away.

Thomas watched after him briefly, and sighed. He had achieved great success on all his errands this afternoon: Greenhalgh found, confronted, effectively confessed, stopped and paying dearly. His scheming valet had been all but outed to his master. The child farm's most heinous practices had been stopped, with a stern warning and its better services continuing. He himself now had more money in his inner pocket than he'd ever seen in his entire life. And Ian was getting treated, and would benefit from—

Ian.

It had all been for Ian. Avenging him. Healing him. Hiding him. Holding him. And today specifically, doing it all so that he could move on; so they could move on, and move up. Together.

But for all his clear treacheries, the despicable Baron had still managed to plant just enough question in his head, so that Thomas doubted. Like his Biblical namesake, he was no longer resolute in his belief in his recent angel. Had he been taken in by well-played, if real, distress? Was he only the next, the latest in a line of "patrons" for the pretty young man? Had he, the cool and calculating social climber, been bested at his own endearing game? Had he made a home, made sacrifices and planned many more, for a charming cad who happily invited and accepted every benefit he could? Who, even now, was flashing his best bashful smile at Mrs Crawley and a hospital full of doctors? And who, once dressed, healed, protected and connected, would move on to another, better provider–some London publisher, perhaps? And leave Thomas alone, heartbroken and spent, "taken" in every way except "along with"?

"It's really none of my business," interrupted a familiar voice out of nowhere, and out of context. "But standing afore the bank in some kind of daft trance is likely not the smartest state…"

His head snapped around to face Sarah O'Brien, who suddenly stood beside him with her smuggest look spread across her curious, concerned and victorious face.

"If you've recovered from your financial daze, I cannot _wait_ to hear how you explain what brought you to a fancy home, an orphanage and a bank, in a different city, in the span of a few hours."

He recovered enough to scoff, and set off toward the city centre, knowing she wouldn't actually just go away. "I wanted to make sure you got a good show, after all the effort you made to get here today," he mocked.

She easily, if nonchalantly, kept pace. "Weeks of your acting strangely, slipping out at night, whispering with her middle Ladyship and the barrister's mother, who suddenly decides she needs you-and only you—to accompany her on a sudden shopping trip to Manchester… Wherever _did_ I get the idea that there was something more afoot than a ghost hunt?"

"Perhaps Lady Edith isn't the only Downton resident with an active imagination?"

"How will you explain your stops today to her, then?" she countered effortlessly.

"By telling her the truth… Less obvious is why and how _you_ found me across town and hours after you and her Ladyship parted ways with Mrs Crawley and me."

"That's easy really. I knew you'd be going to the Crawley's house first thing, to drop that trolley of luggage, an address I'd made a point of confirming some weeks back. And it was only good fortune that her Ladyship dispatched me to check on you just in time to see you leaving their tram stop alone, going back into their neighbourhood."

He swallowed, but gave her no further satisfaction.

"And if that weren't strange enough, you then appeared to… assert yourself into a different, wealthier address. After that, you're across town to a youth home, which you then leave in the company of some Society official, only to warn and shake hands with him after a brief visit to a bank. Have I missed anything?"

"Sharp-eyed and suspicious as ever," Thomas confirmed and complimented.

"Best I could come up with, is the preposterous idea that you've gotten some young woman… into trouble," O'Brien explained bluntly, almost laughing. "And I'd have to say I'd be surprised, impressed even."

It was clear that she was questioning his interest in bedding a woman, at least as much as his knowing better than to do so. But he certainly wasn't going there with her, or anyone else. But, as always, she'd need something juicy to occupy her rabid curiosity.

"Well then, I guess you'll be less surprised to learn the child I was checking after… is Lady Edith's."

O'Brien stuttered noticeably in her step.

Thomas smiled without breaking his stride. "But, as you'll both need to head back soon if you're to reach Downton in time for dinner, shall we find her Ladyship, and tell the tale together?"

* * *

The woman had acted faster than he had, outside the bank. And as the chatting pair stuck to busy streets, he'd need to follow, and wait for a less public opportunity...

* * *

"We have a few minutes before we're to meet Thomas," Isobel explained as she buttoned Ian's coat over his loosely bound right arm. "If you're up for it, I thought we might walk the few blocks up to the University, and catch the tram there. How does that sound?"

"Yes, mam," Ian agreed and fell in beside her, entirely unaccustomed to the well-intentioned fuss, now publically heaped atop her arranging and, he was sure, paying for the physician's interview, x-ray, diagnosis and prescription. A 'proximal humerus fracture' he practiced silently so as to remember it, glad they had explained it wasn't 'funny' but rather the name of the arm bone whose 'ball and socket' he'd broken.

"I know it's not comfortable or the most fetching," Isobel was reminding him as she they walked. "But it's only for a few more weeks; and will help the bone heal as best it can."

 _Given how long you've been using it, even minimally, since the injury, it may never heal properly. I'm afraid you're likely to experience some pain, if not restricted movement, for a long time,_ Doctor Lennox had explained, solemnly but kindly. While showing Ian a picture of his own bones, the doctor had continued, _Whatever your employment's been to date, going forward, you'll need to find something that doesn't require a great deal from this arm._

"And," Isobel reminded, showing she was both a nurse and mother to a once younger man, "Don't fall prey to the temptation to carry anything in the sling. Your arm needs to hang naturally; it is not a rucksack."

"Yes, mam," he agreed with all the enthusiasm of a harried son.

"I don't mean to nag," she smiled as they continued. "I suppose it's been some time since I had child or patient to care for." She didn't share with her surrogate ward how now, at Downton, she felt like the troubled sheep, not the shepherd. How times, and roles, had changed…

Bells above and beside them startled them both from their reflections, as the doors to the Holy Name of Jesus Church opened; and a happy crowd poured out onto the sidewalk behind them.(1)

"What's that then?" Ian asked, unsure exactly what he was witnessing.

"It looks like a wedding," Isobel turned, and clasped her hands happily at the joyous group focused on the soon emerging white gown and dapper suit. She looked over to find Ian transfixed at the spectacle of shouts, smiles, clapping and rice throwing. "An artist, and a romantic as well?" she chuckled, realizing he was watching with more than just a passing curiosity. "Are you picturing such a scene with your special someone?"

Ian blushed, and shook his head, turning quickly to continue on.

"Is that no someone, or no such plans yet?" she pressed him.

"I daren't get me hopes up falsely," he demurred quietly.

"She'll be a lucky woman, whenever that times comes," Isobel assured him. "And perhaps she'll join you in London, _when_ that works out. Let's be confident, shall we? You deserve it."

Knowing he couldn't tell her the truth, or how officially impossible was her imagined happy ending, Ian nonetheless appreciated her good wishes. And her ongoing generosity. And her company in this hometown, and peopled world, that he barely knew.

"And who knows, I might be involved in a wedding myself soon… My son's that is," she remembered aloud, before turning toward the tram stop opposite them, near the brown sandstone and red tile roofs of the Victoria University of Manchester's main buildings.

Ian had never seen or met Mrs Crawley's son, the hopeful heir to the country palace. Thomas had explained his own indignation that this man, and his mother, could magically show up one day, and somehow be more worthy of the palatial estate and patronly esteem, than was he. He too had had middle class roots, of sorts; and hadn't he worked harder for Downton than this distanced distant relation?

No, Ian didn't understand the intricacies of aristocratic politics; but he did understand excess and want. Mrs Crawley's home was less grand than the palace Thomas served, but was still grander by far than anything he'd known until recently. And yet, for an excess of smiles, she was as kind and generous as only Thomas had been to him. He wondered whether Thomas might be less harsh on the son, for the deeds of the mother. Or whether a relocation to London, if no wedding, might make the resentment moot; whether distance, and liberation, could make the heart grow less harsh, if not fonder.

Perhaps they'd all soon see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Located just north of the Royal Infirmary, the Church's tall tower facing Oxford Street today was added after the time of this story, in 1928.


	33. (De)Part and Parcels

Smoking and heading away from the River Irk, the Cathedral, and the Corn & Produce Exchange, Thomas refused to answer any additional questions, or make talk more than small with O'Brien, as they approached the shops around Market and Oldham streets. As she'd arranged, they found Lady Edith critically eyeing both products and people at the recently imported American store, FW Woolworth and Company.

She happened to look up from the counter where she was reviewing broaches, and smiled for the lady's maid's success, and in hopes of the footman's. "Ah, I see you found one another."

"As instructed, your Ladyship," Thomas confirmed he knew he'd been hunted, before focusing the attention on her. "And how has your Manchester visit been?"

"Well, I've had quite the excursion," she proclaimed proudly. "I visited the Kendal Milne & Faulkner over Deansgate, a darling haberdashery on the walk back, had a quick bite at a quaint café near St Ann's, and have just been exploring the more… popular experience here for about half an hour."(1)

As she had only one small bag in hand, Thomas presumed she'd either exercised restraint, or…

"I've had a few things sent ahead to the station, to make things easier all around."

He nodded his understanding and approval, counting O'Brien's stars as lucky that her Ladyship hadn't been left carrying her own bags, or relieved of them by some quick-handed thief.

"It seems you've had a fine day in the city," O'Brien paraphrased obediently, unmoved or not caring for her own good fortune.

"Indeed. And… I hope you both have had successes as well?" Edith jumped quickly to their dual detective work.

O'Brien glanced at the successfully delivered the footman; but she was content to watch his traveling show unfold before her.

"Shall we step somewhere less… public?" Thomas suggested, gesturing toward a less trafficked area beside the grand stairwell.

As they re-gathered, he made of point of looking at his pocket watch. They all had places to be; and so he chose how best to briefly provide them both just enough about his business in the city.

Both women looked at him with rapt attention—one desperate for good news, and the other eager for a bad performance.

"As Mrs O'Brien appears to have joined the ranks of our investigation…?" He looked to Edith to acknowledge what he'd clearly deduced already, which she did. "I will confirm for her sake, that Mrs Crawley has been assisting her Ladyship with some subtle inquiries as to the events at Downton on Guy Fawkes Night. They requested my help in asking amongst my networks in the region."

Part of him didn't like implicating the mother of their potential estate heir, especially as nice as she'd proven to be. But Edith could attest that it was true; and, he might need every bit of cover he could get, should others find out about even the surface version of his recent activities. "We'd gathered clues from the items found at Downton, and the police reports on the roadside items. As Mrs O'Brien has undoubtedly noticed, I have slipped away from the house several evenings of late, drinking up the staff and travelers at the Downton pubs, and talking up those on the trains. I've written to contacts at grand houses and businesses across Yorkshire. And her Ladyship's research helped us narrow the search to three families with 'G' names, and finally to one here in Manchester."

O'Brien didn't react to what little new information Thomas provided, certain he wasn't actually providing very much. Edith grew increasingly eager as she perceived him catching up the dour maid, and building up to greater revelations.

"As Mrs Crawley makes some society visits today, I have visited a gentleman whose handkerchief we found that night…"

Edith held her breath in anticipation. Even O'Brien's eyebrows twitched.

Thomas' smiled evaporated as he summarized, "I'm sorry to bear the news, your Ladyship, that in short, it seems we were the victims of wicked prank by a runaway orphan."

"What?" both women started, deflated at that sad explanation, if for differing reasons.

Glancing to O'Brien when he referenced a location she'd apparently tracked him to, Thomas explained. "The 'G' gentleman I called upon is a patron of one of the city's orphanages. The day of the storm, he'd generously taken one of the older boys with him on a driving trip. But, loosed from the work house, the lad was apparently quite the handful, and slipped away after dinner in our village. Being a prankster as well, he used some jam from the pub to shock a few people along the road, including us at Downton, with concocted wounds and frightening appearances."

"But the police reports…?" Edith wondered. "The downed tree on the road…?"

"Our 'ghost' apparently also fancied himself a lumberjack, tried to block their giving chase with the car, and cut himself in the process. Fearing the scandal of association, our Mancunian gentleman convinced the police to let the issue drop, and returned the boy to the home. While I was careful not to identify our family to him, he was still most embarrassed at the boy's antics, and perhaps more so to know we'd tracked the fraud back to him."

"And you've seen this prodigal rascal yourself, have you?" O'Brien seemed dubious; but the confirmation fit his day's visits, and further reassured Lady Edith.

"Aye, your Ladyship was so clearly upset by the events, I wanted to be sure," Thomas explained, with a gush of concern. "Mrs O'Brien's just seen me come from visiting the charity to confirm. The boy's injury is healing. And his hair's been shaved off… I think as much punishment, as attempt to clean him up." No need encouraging Edith to set out to see for herself. "He comes of age very soon. God help the people of Manchester once he's out on his own."

Edith was heartbroken that her vision was no more than a child's mean-spirited joke.

O'Brien looked all the more skeptical of him, and unsurprisingly disappointed in their young mistress.

This quick summary, mostly true, would explain much of his secretive activity of late; but he needed to be sure they didn't push for more details. They needed a good reason to be satisfied with the general idea. And if facts couldn't do it, charm would have to suffice. "I appreciate both your patience," he smiled to each woman, "that I've not said more before today, and won't go into further detail now. Beyond the gentleman's request for his own privacy, both Mrs Crawley and I feel it best not to implicate either of you further, given his Lordship's stern words on the issue. Your Ladyship, I thank you for your understanding as we've kept you from much of the process. And we all owe a thanks to Mrs O'Brien, who deduced I was up to something of late, but whose discretion is, as always, impeccable."

"It seems I owe you thanks a second time today," Edith offered to the lady's maid. "And again to you, Thomas. While I must say I'd hoped for a clearer resolution on the sightings at Downton, there is some comfort in knowing I wasn't imagining it all…" She was clearly downtrodden at the stormy night's revelation, if only because it meant that she _had_ apparently conjured the vision at least once, in daylight. "But wait! That still doesn't explain how Mrs Patmore saw the boy in the dining room days later…"

Thomas shrugged understandingly but dismissively. "Your sharp eyes on Guy Fawkes Night had set many of us on edge, my lady; and that morning was a stressful one in the kitchen, what with the Crawleys and the Dowager Countess dining, and church interrupting her preparation time. She'd left services early…" He dared not speak to having reasonable explanation for her seeing things on the gallery, and falling down the main stairs.

She sighed, before remembering the public setting and its necessary stiff upper lip. "Well, I suppose I'll have to take some comfort that at least the initial sighting was real. But, it seems I'll have no vindication with the rest of the family, as we'd all only get into more trouble should either of my parents learn what we've been up to…"

"And speaking of, your Ladyship," Thomas was again looking at his pocket watch, rather than supporting her pity wallow. "While you head to your train to make dinner and explanations, I must take my leave, as I have one more appointment to make here in the city."

"Something else about the case?" Edith hoped against the likely heated homecoming at Downton.

"Nothing so exciting, milady," he smiled all the more warmly. "Especially, as I believe that course is run. No, I am simply to help Mrs Crawley shop for her son, so that none of us will have actually lied about our time in Manchester. Shall I point you in the correct direction?"

* * *

With a sad glance of thanks from Edith, and a clear 'this isn't over' glare from O'Brien, Thomas waved them away, and then took the long way around to his rendezvous, arriving slightly tardy. As he approached the tea shop closer to the Town Hall, he caught sight of Isobel Crawley delivering a large tea cake to the politely protesting Ian Colson.

He paused at the window, feeling a precious rush on seeing the fetching young man smiling, socializing and cinched in a sling that finally provided some proper healing to his artist arms. His mind flashed to repeats of this scene, only with himself making the delivery, and sitting opposite that happy face, and being the cause of it. And Ian smiling back in return.

And then Thomas' smile fell despite himself, as a raspy voice in his head suggested that the man had actually just used that charming face and manners to swindle himself yet another free meal, professional medical care, and a doting mother figure to offer it all. That Ian was playing her, just as Thomas had just played Lady Edith. That he and Ian were indeed alike, but not for good.

A car horn interrupted the building tension. Taking a breath as deep as his doubts, Thomas entered and made directly for their table.

Sitting facing the door, Mrs Crawley saw him first, "Ah, Thomas," she smiled, "We made good time at the hospital, and arrived a little early ourselves. We were just getting something for Ian to take with us."

_He'd charmed her into feeding him, and then giving him more for the road._

Ian hopped up with a wide grin, before hesitating and sticking out his left hand. "They've done up me arm, quite nicely. I'm a proper patient now, I am."

Thomas smiled back, and shook the proffered hand, daring and desiring nothing more at the moment.

"I saw me own bones," Ian continued with excitement which began to wane as he took in Thomas' merely polite reactions. "I fractured me… humerous ball, in me shoulder." He checked with Mrs Crawley that he'd said it correctly.

"And so long as he uses that sling, and not his arm, for a few weeks, he should largely recover," she nodded, and further explained. "I shall expect him to continue to be a good patient, now that he's been seen to."

"I will, mam. And, you should have this," Ian pointed Thomas to the spare chair and boxed sweet.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Would you like somethin' else?" Ian asked, thinking better of adding _I'm buyin'_ , as it was actually the other man's money.

"No, thank you," Thomas declined, despite having eaten nothing since breakfast. He was more conflicted than hungry, and sitting to eat meant sitting to chat. And there were several conversations he couldn't have yet, here, in mixed company. "In fact, we should go, mam, if we're to get in some shopping, and make our connections back."

"Very well," Isobel agreed, a little surprised by his urgency, but not wanting to push back, lest his coolness relate to what he'd discovered in his errands. No need to involve the younger man, or spoil his recovery or their day on the town.

They walked the few blocks back to the department stores in too polite conversation, each overlapping concern publically paused. Isobel suppressed her interest in Thomas' investigations, and substituted the news of the London publisher's interest in Ian. Ian balanced his nervous excitement at that possibility, with an effort to gaze his way into Thomas' discoveries. And Thomas held his tongue and offered his smiles as appropriate, wrestling all the while with the implications of the day's dramas.

Once to the store, Ian gawked at even that modest commerce emporium as Thomas helped pick out a few dapper, and Downton functional fashions for Mr Crawley. His services availed and their cover story confirmed, Mrs Crawley suggested the cousins catch up while she saw to a few items for herself.

Ian suggested Thomas take a smoke, and wasted little time heading out to the street. As soon as they'd stepped aside from the street door, he turned and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Why should anythin' be wrong?" Thomas didn't answer, focusing on his match in the cold evening breeze.

"You've gone diggin' in my past, and come back troubled, no surprise. But you insisted. And I trusted. And now, I'm askin': What's happened?"

"Let's just say that I've put an end to Baron Greenhalgh's foul antics, and ensured those at Strangeways will end as well."

Ian looked out into the cityscape, terrified at what smoke or fires he might see in the distance. "What have you done?"

"I've not broken anyone or anythin', except their secret agreements, if that's what you're worried about…"

"Then I'd expect you to be happy in victory," Ian pointed out insightfully, "not distracted or nervous. But that's what you are. Somethin' more happened while you was 'breakin''."

Thomas was again impressed at the boy's ability to read him. But today, after… it was more concerning than intriguing.

"You saw the Tutwilers? The Baron? They said somethin'?" Gaining no response beyond more fervent sucking on the cigarette, Ian stepped closer. "Please tell me?"

"Let's just say the old man… asked some questions about your… intentions," Thomas admitted quietly, terrified that even naming the doubt aloud gave it credence. He needed to know, but he also feared the answer.

Ian stepped in front of him, putting Thomas between him and the building, unable to escape his angry, angst-ridden face. "If you got him to stop his meddlin', that means he admitted it in the first place. And despite that confession, you'd _still_ believe anythin' he'd say about me?"

Thomas hadn't thought fully to that point, and could barely face the injury Ian was taking at his aspersions for it. Or at least his performance of that slight. Wasn't his whole struggle between whether the allegations were true, and how much he didn't _want_ them to be so?

"You believe him," Ian realized, ice settling in his voice, face and posture as quickly as Thomas finished his anxious smoke.

"I-" was all Thomas could say, before another voice and form jumped out from the passing crowds.

"Knew it! You! Thieving! Bastard!"

Ian reeled to the ground with a yelp of surprise and pain, as several other voices also cried out. A well-dressed man with wild hair had fallen upon him, shaking him by the lapels and mumbling, "Ruined everything… so smart… smug git…"

Reacting only to Wink's distress, Thomas leapt to the assailant, and pulled him off.

"Someone get the police!" a spectator shouted.

"Bowers!" Thomas realized as he pushed the man away, the stench of good whiskey nearly gagging him. He turned back to Ian, who had pulled himself into a crouch, clutching his bound arm.

"Thomas!" the Greenhalgh butler slurred across their standoff, "You've ruined me… But led me straight to the ungrateful whelp. Knew you would…"

Ian looked from him to Thomas, a fresh wave of disappointment and betrayal passing over him.

"Ian, I didn't…" Thomas tried to protest, as Bowers lunged at him, and managed to connect a fist to his lower lip. Shoving him back as men in the crowd moved to pull them apart, Thomas saw the devastated face turn, dart out into the busy street traffic, and vanish as the crowd closed in again. "Ian!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I’ve tried to make their course and travel time as realistic as possible, based on what I know of the city now and can find on that era. Of particular help, FYI, was the Woolworths Museum UK site. (You can search for it.)


	34. Race for last

"O'Brien had nothing to do with this, mama," Edith corrected quickly, not letting her furious mother gain more steam as she and her co-accused stood facing the nearly dressed-for-dinner Lord and Lady Grantham.

 _Well, well, a backbone_ , thought the lady's maid stoically. _Who'd've suspected? Good to know, and appreciated. But I hope you don't think I owe you anything for it; if anything, you still owe me for getting you there and delivering Thomas. Even though you let him off too easily…_

"She had mentioned needing to do some shopping as well," Edith continued with a bravada that was based in impudence, as much as confidence. "And I made the connection between that need and the opportunities in Manchester."

"And I thought I'd been quite clear that no family or staff were to accompany Mrs Crawley and Thomas," Cora reminded as she simmered on the edge of the settee, continuing to glance between the nervous daughter and the always grim maid.

"And we didn't, as I've said. Realizing Manchester offered Christmas shopping options York did not, I decided to go there, not with cousin Isobel, just at the same time."

"On the same train!" her mother pointed out.

"How else could I make a day of it, other than starting early, just they did? It's not my fault there aren't as many options west as to London… Besides, O'Brien didn't realize I intended to go as far as Manchester when we boarded. If anything, I would think you'd commend her accompanying me through the day, rather than taking her half-day in York."

"Is this true, O'Brien?" the Earl finally entered in, dubious, and a little surprised Edith was defending the servant more than herself.

"I did wish to do some Christmas shopping, that's true, your Lordship, and did mention so to Lady Edith. And I'm sorry if that sparked the idea of Manchester, I am. But, once underway, I didn't feel I could leave her go into the city alone, especially not when we had no way to let you know so." That was all she really needed to say, all she'd been asked; and it painted her as the put-upon savior, sacrificing to save the wayward daughter. But she needed more certainty of her own safety, and saw a way to throw another, even more appealing target under the bus. "If it makes your Ladyship feel better about the travel, I would add that Mrs Crawley was with us into Manchester, and offered us advice on good shops and dining." _She didn't send Edith home either…_

"You neither are her responsibility, O'Brien," the Countess countered the unsaid suggestion. "And she's hardly in a position now to make a bad impression on the family. Had you thought of that Lady Edith? No? Despite your imposition on her Christmas shopping trip, for which she'd requested some privacy-perhaps to shop for your gift, she was kind enough to help."

"But we didn't shop with her; she sent us on directly from the station, and we shopped on our own," Edith returned to her own defense, as O'Brien swallowed at her failed decoy. "William's brought several cases up to my room if you'd like to see the proof."

"Only, you shouldn't, milady," O'Brien interrupted to everyone's surprise, "as some of it is intended for the family. I'll vouch for the shopping done, until you all open your gifts at Christmas."

The Earl looked exasperated; the Countess unconvinced. The latter stared a moment more before wrapping up the affair enough for dinner. "Lady Edith, however generous your motives, you nonetheless knowingly and intentionally disobeyed me, which we will neither forget nor forgive lightly. But that's for another time. Beyond Mrs Crawley, you also placed Mrs O'Brien in a very difficult situation, in which she ultimately gave up her half-day and risked our displeasure, in order to chaperone you. It seems you owe O'Brien a debt for her risk and sacrifice; and I think a day's wages from your account will begin to compensate her for the day's unexpected duties."

Edith couldn't say much against that; and O'Brien just nodded modestly at the financial justice.

"Now, so as not to inconvenience any additional family or staff, you'll change for dinner at once. Go."

Swallowing any desire to push for less or better considering how mildly this had actually turned out, Edith nodded to all and took her leave.

"Is there anything I can do to prepare your Ladyship for dinner?" O'Brien asked as pleasantly as she could.

"No, thank you. Perhaps you can see to my afternoon dress, and give some thought to what would be good for services in the morning."

O'Brien nodded and moved to gather the discarded outfit on the bed.

As she reached the door with it, Lady Grantham called out, "And O'Brien? We are grateful for keeping an eye on Lady Edith today, to be sure. But, I know you to be smart, as well as loyal. Please do not let Lady Edith, or anyone else, put you into that position again."

Said sweetly, the sting was still there; and O'Brien could do no more than nod once, look down and leave.

Once the door shut behind her, Robert asked, "Do you believe them?"

"Not for a moment," Cora insisted with a sigh, before turning and putting on her gloves. "But I can't prove the contrary either."

"I can ask cousin Isobel; hear her version of what happened," he offered.

"Only, you've already asked her to work with Edith on her… 'investigation.' I think this shows how well that's worked out."

"Perhaps, but she was involved at my request, and so should be happy to tell me whether this jaunt was related."

"Well, whatever she says, you must ask her to end it, once and for all. Culpable or not, at least we know O'Brien would keep her out of trouble; but if Edith gets bolder or more reckless…"

Robert nodded, unable to argue how the grand scheme seemed not to have achieved its reverse-intention goals. He chuckled, "Do you recall when they all were just crawling? All we had to worry about their dashing off, were the stairs…"

Cora smiled up at him and his nostalgia. "We have three girls, Robert; young women, really. They're all sprinters now."

* * *

_**Sunday, 1 December 1912** _

As was his usual, Thomas paid little actual attention to the weekly church service. He was prompt, quiet, faced forward, and stood, spoke and sang as was scripted; but there was nothing in that hour a week that was relevant to him. It was an escape from the Abbey, and welcome for that if nothing else; but in many ways it was simply stepping out of the service of one Lord, to be reminded about his duties to another, even more powerful and austere one.

For it wasn't that Thomas didn't believe in God—he thought he did. It was just that God, or at least his earthly representatives, didn't offer Thomas much more than a promissory note for a better afterlife—no current comfort for the string of hardships his life had been. And even that eternal promise was conditional on not being what Thomas was: in love with another man. Like he did to his material masters at Downton, each Sunday was a reminder that Thomas was expected to sacrifice everything for little more than the honor of serving, with no more long-term prospects than more worship and service. At least the Crawleys wouldn't cast him into the fires forever; not on most days.

Still, service at the estate was the best deal for his mortal now, until something better came along: a higher role, a higher family, or an escape to a home of his own. That dream was still far off, but closer by far than heaven. Only, he'd recently populated that dream with a second occupant; he'd dared to share that dream with someone else who'd seemed interested, and fit perfectly. In the past few weeks, his plans had begun to change, to take shape with a companion, opportunities away from rural Yorkshire, and as of yesterday, a sizable nest egg of aristocratic penance money.

But, once again, he, or God, or life more generally had swiftly seen to it that no such happiness would be his. When perhaps it most mattered, he hadn't believed. Hadn't believed he could actually have found something, someone so good. Hadn't believed he could be worthy of that goodness. Hadn't believed in Ian. Instead, he'd projected Greenhalgh's treachery and his own scheming suspicions onto his angel, and in doing so, had cast him off into the cold, strange night some seventy miles away.

This cold, sunny morning, Thomas sat in the stiff pew among the stiff people, with a swollen lip, a pocket stuffed with money, and a heart that would ache audibly if it weren't so empty. As the vicar prattled on, he wondered how hell could be any worse.

The congregation stood to pray; and he stood to recite along mechanically. But in his head, he berated himself with the details of his latest loss for the millionth time:

How the night before, he'd managed not to get entangled with the police in Manchester, despite his bleeding lip and Bowers' ranting about his ruining everything. Passers-by had confirmed that he had been attacked on the street unprovoked; and the butler's boozy breath, general dishevelment and cryptic accusations led the officers to cart him away without further questions. Thomas guessed that because of his own parting revelation about the gang in Leeds, the Baron had decided it best to keep hold of the butler by threat of ruinous reference, and instead to make his life of service all the more miserable. They deserved each other.

Mrs Crawley had come looking for the cousins, just as he'd headed back in to find her. And she'd been focused enough on nursing his split lip that she didn't make much fuss at his excuse that Ian had realized the time, had to get home, and sent his apologies and thanks. She hadn't noticed he'd shoved Ian's abandoned cap into his coat pocket, joining the shoe and the blood money. She looked forward to seeing him again as they worked out the London arrangements, not knowing that Thomas sat before her, worried he'd stupidly seen that that would never happen, for either of them.

As they'd trammed back to the Crawley home to repack for the return to Downton, he'd politely listened to her friendly chatter even as he strained to see any sign that Ian was nearby. He'd taken as much time as he could at the house, making time for Ian to calm down and arrive; and willed him to be on the porch or the street when they finally headed back to the station.

He'd gotten her settled aboard in Manchester, and nearly missed that same train as he scoured the station for some sign that Ian was following, if furtive. On the transfer at York, he'd actually laid a hand on the arm of a close-cropped man, who turned out to be a soldier on leave. And even at Downton, while unloading at Crawley House, and through the long, lonely walk back to the Abbey, he hoped every shadow, every shine and every sound was Wink grudgingly giving in and coming back.

But the key lay undisturbed at the hideaway cottage, both when he first checked, and when he snuck back out of the house and spent the night, sleeping there in case Ian arrived. He had evidence of Ian—drawings, musky blankets and a lock of curls he'd kept; but no twinkle save sparks in the hearth, no heat but burning wood. And the promise of unending fire beyond this wretched, stupidly self-made, lonely life.

Shifting his focus from angels to demons as the congregation began to sing, he'd managed to avoid Mrs O'Brien through the late night and again this morning, despite the other staff's questions about his swollen lip. "Shopping accident," he'd curtly answered. Not sure what exactly had happened when she and Lady Edith returned, he suspected it wasn't great; and she was in no hurry to share through breakfast or their walk into the village. Even this tenuous alliance was withdrawn; sitting near the center of the packed church, Thomas was truly alone.

As the service broke, and the staff made the long walk back, O'Brien seemed no more interested in reconnecting. Daisy kept glancing at him, focusing on his bruised mouth, blushing and looking away. And were it not for the crippled valet pulling up the rear with a pitying Anna, Thomas would be last.

Still lost in regret and recrimination as they turned up the drive, he happened to turn his head aside from the head-on wind. And there, beside a small copse of bare trees just off the road, he saw movement. He looked up just enough to glimpse a brown clad, light-headed figure.

"Thomas?" a deep, irritating voice behind him asked. "Everything alright?"

He'd apparently stopped and gaped enough to catch the attentions of Anna and Bates behind him, concerned and haughty, respectively.

"I'm fine," he lied at them, turning back to find the woods unoccupied. "Just makin' sure the snail makes it back so the rest of us don't have to cover for him."

"The tortoise wins the race, Thomas," Bates corrected with a smile.

Fighting the urge to dash into the spare foliage, Thomas glared, turned and stalked toward the house and luncheon service. His eyes searched the grounds for some other sign, just as he'd look for the soonest opportunity to slip away and to confirm what he thought he'd seen. What he hoped he had.


	35. Truths Out

As the staff headed back to the house immediately after the service, and despite the still dreary weather, the Earl and family took a little time to speak with the vicar and other congregants, a weekly ritual to see and be seen by those in the realm of Grantham.

As the line thinned and one of the tenant farm families bid their tidings—the Drews, if Lady Grantham remembered which farm correctly, a final well-wisher approached for her turn. "Cousin Isobel," Cora smiled to her, "I do hope you and Matthew will still be joining us for luncheon."

"Good day," she smiled to the couple. "We are very much looking forward to it, of course. In fact, I wondered whether we might ride with you?"

"Well," Robert smiled politely, trying to quickly count people and seats to be sure a single trip would suffice.

"I've just spoken with the Dowager Countess," Isobel added helpfully, "She's asked off until dinner, if that change isn't too much trouble."

"Of course not," Cora smiled with some relief at quieter midday meal, if additional menu and manners pressure for the evening.

"And, Matthew has agreed to ride with the younger Ladies, in the carriage, if that's not too brash."

The parents grimaced quickly, before their polite, noncommittal faces snapped into place. While highly irregular, he was technically relations, and at least one of them was hoping for a connection with the eldest daughter…

Isobel raised her eyebrows expectantly, suggesting that this arrangement –which left her alone with the older adults in the car—was desirable for a larger, important reason.

"Well, we've only just left church; and it's only just to the house after all," Robert conceded. "But would should get along. Wouldn't want to keep Mrs Patmore waiting."

So loaded, and with Taylor instructed not to outpace the horse-drawn cart ferrying the next generation, the Crawley caravan was well behind the ambling servants. As planned, that pace also gave them all time to catch up.

"Thank you for agreeing," Isobel began in almost immediately. "I realize this might be a bit unusual. But I wanted a private moment to discuss Manchester, before we're all gathered at the table."

Cora shot Robert a quick glance, to which he could only shrug slightly. Not his doing, but it suited them both very well.

Seeing the exchange gave Isobel some relief; they were all on the same page at least so far as communicating about her assignment with Edith. She now hoped they would appreciate what she had to share. She cut to it. "You must know by now, that despite our encouragement against it, Lady Edith joined me for the trip yesterday, making it clear that she was going even if I did not." Rather than being angry, she chuckled, "You have quite the strong and smart daughter; you should be proud. But that does mean she's quite dogged; she's been quite persistent about her investigation all month. Not just yesterday."

The less impressed parents did not react to the compliment, so focused on the problematic behavior it painted nicely.

"As you might also have guessed, I involved your footman, Thomas, as a sort of accomplice within the house along the way, and on our expedition yesterday. He's a good man, and did help me shop for my son; so we were honest about that, should it come up. And as importantly, he has helped me keep Lady Edith busy without her being overly or too directly involved, as you wished."

Thomas' involvement was not something they either had suspected, at least before yesterday. His participation was also not entirely reassuring.

Context lain, Isobel provided an update on all the weeks' troubles. "Through various efforts, we three learned that there was a gentleman from Manchester traveling through Downton the night of the storm. As patron of one of the children's home in the city, he'd generously taken one of the older boys with him on a driving trip. But, loosed from the work house, the lad was apparently quite the handful, and slipped away from their dinner at the Grantham Arms. Being a prankster also, he used berry jam to shock several homes along the road, including us at Downton, with concocted wounds and frightening appearances."

Exchanging another look, Robert spoke for the parental pair. "The police were fairly adamant they'd found evidence of actual injuries…"

Gesturing understanding of that 'fact,' Isobel explained, "It would seem the boy managed to catch himself on a tree or gate as he ran about in the dark, and cut himself. They'd been out looking for him, and found him when he gave up the chase, and was returning for help. Ultimately, fearing the scandal of association, our gentleman whisked them back to Manchester, and convinced the police to let the issue drop, as the only known harm done was to the boy."

"How on earth did you discover all this?" Cora gasped, both shocked and impressed.

"Oh, it wasn't only me," Isobel grinned, too proudly at first. "As I said, Lady Edith narrowed down our possibilities without ever leaving Downton; and your Thomas' connections helped us find the specific house. And he actually paid the visit yesterday, in case our mystery Mancunian were someone I'd happened to meet. Not to worry," she assured, "he was careful not to identify any of us; and found the gentleman didn't ask much, as he was still most embarrassed at the boy's antics, and perhaps more so to know we'd tracked the fraud back to him."

"So she _did_ see someone, at least the first time," the father slouched slightly.

"And Edith knows all this?" the mother asked, before summarizing what the cousin's confirmation might mean to Downton. "If she were her sister, we'd _never_ hear the end of it. I honestly don't know how she's going to react."

"She said nothing of it last night," Robert reminded, optimistically.

"She was coming directly from a dressing down by us for traveling against our wishes," Cora grimaced with little consolation. "She knew any victory sharing at dinner would be offset by our swift return to that rebuke, in public." _In front of Mary especially_ , she meant.

Isobel interrupted the longer future projections, with a further note of caution. "I should add that Lady Edith and Mrs O'Brien learned the truth from your Thomas, as they ran into him on the street when he was returning to report to me. Given the hour, they had to return to Downton directly; so unfortunately, I haven't had the chance to speak with her about it."

"So we _really_ don't know how she's taken it, or what she'll do with it…" Cora worried even more.

"Never mind the rumour mongering already rampant downstairs," the master of the house considered the staff sources and impact.

"We have to head this off," Cora turned to him.

"I agree. But I don't see how, not without exposing our agreement with cousin Isobel, despite having forbidden the issue. We couldn't even raise the issue without showing an interest we've prohibited."

"Ahem," Isobel tapped her chest lightly, wearing a pleasant smile as they recalled she was still present and was already involved. "Perhaps if _I_ said something at luncheon today?"

* * *

"Well, look who deigns to rub elbows with us common folk…," O'Brien sneered, as Thomas joined her for a smoke in the brief, post-luncheon break they shared. "You've gone from too good for us yesterday, to scarce last night, to downright irritable on this, the Lord's Day."

"Don't think either of us has had the best couple of days," he pointed out flatly. "Spent my day on a goose chase for Lady Edith and Mrs Crawley, topped off by an afternoon and evening of clothes shopping for the man I'm not good enough to butler for. And then I just had to watch it all washed away over five courses. Happy early Christmas to me." And that was only his work woes.

"Loose in the city's better than pinned to her Ladyship's side," harrumphed the lady's maid. She was bitter for that price of her day away, trying to figure out what Thomas was up to.

"Well then, I'm glad you managed to get away and tail my 'loose' hours," Thomas chuckled, fully knowing that she had arranged the day to check on him, and that she had not been satisfied with the story she got. But not to that yet. "How'd you fare on returning yesterday?"

"Well enough," O'Brien puffed. "Lady Edith had the decency to claim I knew nothing of her Manchester plans. That I gave up my half-day to chaperone her once I realized where she was off to."

He nodded, wide-eyed, in a show of shared surprise at the magnanimous act.

O'Brien scoffed, "She owed me for giving her a way to justify going, watching after her, and chasing you down." She wanted Thomas to know that Lady Edith was in on surveilling him. "And, she'd best not think we're nearly even. Not close. Not after her Ladyship slapped my wrist for letting the daughter corner me into staying with her. Not the best end to an already less than satisfying day…"

"Come now, Mrs O'Brien," Thomas teased. "You did have a free trip to Manchester no matter the company, gained some credits with a Grantham girl, and finally were admitted to the Guy Fawkes Night Secret Sleuthing Society. Not a bad haul, on the whole."

"What a load of manure! Her maudlin middleship may have believed that snake oil story you told about mischievous runaways; but don't you think for a minute that I did."

With a sad, sly grin, Thomas reached into his jacket pocket and dropped a ten pound note into O'Brien's lap.

"What's this then?" she asked, genuinely taken by surprise.

"That's for not tellin' her Ladyship about my stop at the bank in Manchester, or questioning my story in front of her." He needed her to know that he knew she hadn't been fooled, and that he appreciated her silence.

"Maybe I'll use it to buy the actual truth from you," she sneered, without actually offering it back. She was glad for the money; but it would not be enough to sate her underlying curiosity.

He took a long, final drag on his smoke and lit another, admitting, "Mrs Crawley and I did track down the old man, who did take an orphan on a road trip through Downton. And the boy did get away from them, but… he wasn't out pranking folks. Chasing him in the storm, they hit him with the car by accident." Letting her in on this truth, he let out a long breath of smoky emphasis, growing somber again.

"I can't explain what Lady Edith saw that night, or she or Mrs Patmore later. But it seems the old man and his driver worked hard to cover up ending a young man's life that night, just to save the precious family reputation."

O'Brien was almost staring at him, so not the tale she'd expected to hear. What spirit indeed it implied had been visiting the house, and what crimes it suggested Thomas had uncovered. "Does Mrs Crawley know?"

He shook his head. "Told her what I told Lady Edith."

"And the bank visit was to keep you quiet."

"The old codger _was_ adamant that word not spread," Thomas nodded, adding, "As was the orphanage. So lest you wish to fan a fresh hauntings hysteria here at Downton, upstairs or down, I trust we all can continue to count on your discretion."

"Too right," she cooed as she slipped the note into her pocket, pleased at the reward for her silence, and that the information might still be useful in the future, if needed. Even if she was not incredibly unsettled at the gruesome truth she'd pushed her way into.

They sat for a moment in silence, the tension between them seemingly settled; and a morose tone settled on their early afternoon.

"And you're sure you're alright?" she stood finally and looked at him with a rare, well-intentioned skepticism. She might actually have been worried for him. "Not that I don't appreciate this cash and confidence; but you've been more cross and curt than I'd expect after yesterday's adventures and windfall…"

He laid what he hoped was the final headstone on the weeks' suspicions, tying up the scheming thread he'd implied to her since that stormy night. "It weren't the Downton windfall I was hopin' for. But a few unexpected quid in my pocket for my troubles; and her Ladyship in my debt… not bad for a few weeks' work."

"And I'd guess Mrs Crawley counts you among her camp now, does she?"

"All the better for me if so, in case her uppish son prevails as our heir," he wiggled his eyebrows in self-satisfaction. "Guess I'm still worried about questions on the home front."

She nodding understanding on that point, not realizing his concern over other domestic matters known only to him. "We'll both have to keep our wits about us, now more than ever. Bates and the common Crawleys can't be the only lowly folks who have a Happy Christmas at the Grantham's expense..."

He nodded as she headed back into the house hopefully satisfied, and looked at his pocket watch, hoping that he had time for a quick check on the hideaway, just in case. As that was not the case, he glanced around the courtyard, hoping for an out of place sneeze or some side corner movement to suggest he wasn't alone.

But his collegial honesty and generosity had bought him not even a breeze or bird call.


	36. Mutual Prodigality

Thomas spent the afternoon into evening catching up on chores he'd missed entirely the day before, on top of Mister Carson's usual Sunday lists. Even if he needed Mrs O'Brien to think otherwise, he was quite relieved to have everyone in the house resolved regarding the Guy Fawkes spectre, thanks to Mrs Crawley's luncheon announcement about the jesting runaway. But hosting the Crawleys for luncheon, and then the Dowager Countess plus Doctor Clarkson for dinner, had only added to the day's remaining pace and preoccupations.

Lady Edith and Mrs Crawley had both thanked him again in private for all his assistance, the latter reminding him they should act swiftly on Ian's London offer. And the Dowager Countess had obviously heard through her own means, and revived the castigations of the orphan for being one, the gentleman for letting his charity get the better of him, the police for letting it all get the better of them, and, ironically as she dwelt on it, the family 'round the table for showing any interest in such tawdry affairs.

And, on top of all that, despite the shared 'truth' and amidst the day's tasks, Thomas kept thinking he saw figures or eye-corner movements. Through the window. Up the stairs. Across the room. All the correct height, build, coloring and unrealness to appear as someone they couldn't be. So, he'd either fallen prey to his own worst version story about the runover runaway; or perhaps, Ian had returned, and was trying to make himself known. Or more realistically, Thomas was just that frantically eager to seek and find him, and his imagination only too impatient as to happily provide.

With all his actual engagements attended to, and everyone else finally turning in, he finally slipped out of the house, and stumbled his way to the hideaway through the dark, cloudy night.

On arriving, he found that the key was still unmoved from where he and Ian had hidden it weeks before; and he returned it there again after letting himself in. There was no fire, and so no light, as he entered the upstairs bedroom they'd shared; but from memory, he made his way to the hearth and lit some old newspaper he'd brought as kindling. As the firelight crept out into the small space, a quick glance showed the bedding and furniture unmoved since he'd left that morning. No hint of Ian, or other spirit's, return; no hope for the reconciliation he so desperately wanted.

Until a sneeze echoed from the far corner, beyond the desk under the covered window.

Thomas whirled on the sound, holding the fire iron out before him, breathless.

"I came back," a low voice chattered.

"Ian!" Thomas exclaimed, dropping the weapon and rushing to pull the shivering young man into the warmth and light.

Cold and stiff, perhaps due to the cold, Ian let the grinning, gushing man look him over for harm, settle him before the fire, drape a blanket and arm around him, and take his good hand. "I left a note," Thomas tilted his head toward the desk. It began _Dear Wink_ , lest someone else find and understand, and continued simply, _I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry. Please stay. I'll check daily at our regular time. -Angel_

"Couldn't read it," Ian reminded. Not due to lack of light in the shuttered room; but because it didn't contain any of the few words he could recognize, like his proper name. "But guessed you'd asked me to not to leave..."

Thomas nodded happily that he'd been understood in the end, even while realizing the extent of Ian's early "not good with letters" admission, and worrying the assumption would now come across as yet another mistake in understanding and supporting him. "I know why you left, in Manchester. I understand what I did, what it looked like," Thomas began confessing his sins instantly. _Dug into your past against your wishes. Believed your defiler, and doubted you. Appeared to lead his lackey directly to you. Failed to trust, or listen, or be fully honest, and thus be worthy of your affections…_ "And I can't do more than say how sorry I am I hurt you, and let you get hurt."

Ian nodded silently at the unsaid list, and at the clearly pained apology. But he said nothing; he didn't return Thomas' grasp or gentle caress. He'd noted Thomas' still puffy lower lip, but didn't mention or return his gaze to it.

"Why'd you come back?" Thomas had to know, hoping his curiosity wouldn't come across as a challenge to or disagreement with the decision.

"Lots of reasons," Ian summarized, before quickly shifting his focus. "But first, I want you to know that I _could_ have gone and never come back. I could have taken the food and shelter, the clothes and medicine, the pocketful of money and my freedom, and never looked back. Just like I could've any other time, or knicked any number of fancy things from your room, that house, this place or the Lady's.

"And I _did_ think about doing all that, I did; yesterday and all day today. I may not know much else; but I knew I was dead to most, had me rail ticket, a doctor's note with a new name on it, and some good names I could use in London or wherever. I'm clever, I can draw, and have looks enough I 'spose; and I expect all that, with a bum arm, that's enough to busk or beg, at least to start..."

Ian glowed with an angry confidence Thomas hadn't seen since he nearly launched into Willy at the pub, or first enchanted Mrs Crawley at her home, the prior weekend. Working hard not to smile at that becoming strength, he focused instead on the truth it underlay. Ian _could_ have done any of those things, and done them well and easily, at most any time across the past fortnight, never mind the past twenty-four hours; but for some reason, he hadn't. "I've no doubt," he said simply. "So, why didn't you?"

"'Cause leavin' would only make me look guilty, of whatever he told you I was doin'. And," Ian paused and looked up with his first soft expression of their reunion, "all I had that I cared about, was here; is you…"

Thomas sobbed through his largest smile all day, nodding that that truth was shared between them.

"But," Ian interrupted the teary attempt at an embrace, "I need to know why you even considered believin' him."

This chilled Thomas' heart, realizing Ian had a right to be curious, and the truth could be costly. But he couldn't think of an untruth that made sense, and didn't want to risk not trusting Ian again. After his own behaviour yesterday, he owed Ian honesty, however ugly. So, he took a deep breath, and dropped his head in sharing his shame. "Because what he was suggestin' you were up to, it's the kind of thing I might do myself, that I _have_ done. Charmed people; used them; served myself without much thought about others." Thomas couldn't face him, beginning to worry that Ian might regret his choice to return, might regret his care, if he knew what kind of person others knew his love to be. "I am so much less than the man you know. Even before yesterday, I have not deserved you. And I'm sorry…"

Ian tutted, kissed his forehead, and lifted his chin for a proper kiss. "I couldn't be happier with who you are when it's just us. And as with our tales to Mrs Crawley and more, I'm sure you've good reasons for your other choices. Just no more such business between us; promise?"

Forgiven, relieved and faith renewed, Thomas sighed, kissed the good hand he held, and counted his blond blessings once again.

Stroking the happy hand, Ian offered, "And so, I owe you an apology too."

"What? Whatever for?"

"As much I care about you, I hated you that much more over this past night…" Blushing with shame, Ian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out evidence of his own crisis of faith. Haltingly, he displayed the only handy target of his Saturday displeasure: the original, pocket-sized sketch of Thomas, torn in ragged halves.

"I will never chide your passions, love," Thomas laughed and cried. "Sometimes anger's all we've got to get us through; and I'm sorry I earned it from you. But now we have each other again, and that's worth so much more."

Dark eyes gleamed at that last mutual repair; and the good hand pulled smiling faces together.

Warm and breathless for good cause, Thomas eventually leaned away, remembering his caretaking duties suddenly. "I'd completely forgotten to ask, Are you hungry? I brought a sandwich, and can put on some tea…"

Ian nodded to the question and for the proffered wrapped entree.

"Where did you go last night?" Thomas asked out of curiosity and concern, as he hung the kettle and scrambled to pull some tea from the provisions crate, noting it needed a refilling soon.

"At first, I just ran, just wanted to be away," Ian chewed and recounted. "But afore long, it was just dark and cold and unfamiliar. And while I was eatin' the whole extra pastry I had tucked in me sling for you, I realized I was alone in a city I didn't know or want to be in; and me best options were anywhere else. So," he continued, as Thomas sat down behind and around him to wait for the kettle, "I used me ticket to get to York, and slept in a rail car they'd locked poorly 'til I could pick a place to head today. Come morning, it was colder still, and I was cooler too. And, while eatin' a tea and scone from the counter there, I decided what I already told ya: I couldn't let ole Greenhalgh win. And more, I wanted to be here, with you."

Thomas kissed the honest head leaned against him. "And did you mean for me to see you this morning along the road, as we returned from church?"

"I hadn't thought about it, really. I wanted to see you, to see how that felt."

"And? How did it feel?" Thomas hoped.

"I'm here, aren't I…?" Ian grinned and reached into his pocket, as Thomas saw to the kettle before its whistling could give them away. "And, I have this," Ian laid out a handful of coins on the floor: the remainder of what Thomas had given him the day before. Without knowing it, and having nothing of his own, he was making a point to return the bulk of what little cash Thomas had had in the world.

Thomas paused in pouring their tea, yet again taken aback at the simple gestures this man made to make himself more loveable. And while appreciated and adorable, he recalled that Ian didn't know that this small largesse was no longer as financially needed as it would have been the morning before.

Grabbing his coat and retaking his seat with Ian, he stroked the fuzzy head and stole another kiss. "What I also didn't have the chance to explain yesterday," he shared in return, reaching into the deep pockets, "before we were interrupted, is what I _also_ got from the old man I visited, as a 'farewell present' we'll call it."

With a wickedly warm smile, he set out Ian's dropped hat, and began filling it with stacks of currency bills.

"What's all that then?" Ian gaped, never having imagined there could actually be that much money in one place, much less in his presence.

"Our future," Thomas promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not done yet! A few threads to resolve/complicate still, and keep to canon as well...


	37. Holiday Spirit

Leaning back against the hearthside chair, Thomas held Ian with extra care through that reunion night, intent on not again taking for granted the precious presence. Mindful of the slung arm, he traced the faint two day's stubble that had begun to complete a scruffy frame of Ian's face. He rested his cheek on the softer top, and focused on picking out the faint, now familiar scent of the other man amidst the mix of smells settled on them both. He watched the crackling firelight dance across the still face at rest against his chest, noting each perfect slope and turn. He adjusted the blanket over them, finding and caressing the thin fingers through which the sleeper's imagination, or at least creative memory, poured out onto the page. They closed lightly around his own; and he sighed into a moment of peace and …enoughness, and relished a contentment deeper than any he could remember.

For he had Ian; and they had as much money as they both could need for a good while. He wondered whether he ought to hand in his notice come morning, and just move to London immediately—trusting Ian's artistry would be hired, and that he'd find something promptly. His mind raced to their first shared room, then flat, and on to their own house, as they advanced in their new work and shared life. Select, safe friends and parties, seeing and perhaps setting trends in cosmopolitan circles; calling and beckoning, rather than being so called and beckoned for a change. He'd send the occasional letter back to Downton, informing them of his success, implying their loss, but without bragging, of course.

Or mentioning Ian directly, either. Or other details that might give away too much. Or invite visitors who'd recognize Ian with his hair grown back, or questions about the previously unmentioned, and now live-in bachelor "cousin." No, he realized, the break with Downton would have to be fairly complete; and any communication, very careful. He and Ian would be safer in the crowds of London, if not entirely safe. But they _would_ be free; and they could be cautious. And they would have each other.

Once they got there.

For neither Ian's hire, nor his own as yet undetermined position were assured. He still had figure out how to get Ian to the interview without raising suspicion, and keep him secret and stocked all the while. And Christmas! Gift buying trips might again provide cover for an overnight to the capital, and Yule stockpiles might make his diverting provisions less obvious. But the season also meant the house would be busier, and already scarce down time, even rarer. Never mind what to get Ian for Christmas… For once he had little concern for cost; but he'd still need to think hard and well on what Wink would want, and how to get it.

He smiled again at knowing this would be their first Christmas, with not even two months' knowledge of one another. But that would be enough to begin, he knew. Despite his misgivings the afternoon before, this evening's discussions had put to rest the suspicion that Ian's return was anything other than a genuine desire to be together. While the young man really didn't have anywhere else specific to go, by the end of Saturday, he'd had everything he needed to start afresh somewhere else—even to make his own inquiries with publishers in London, independent of Thomas and Mrs Crawley. He also hadn't known about Greenhalgh's hush money; so his return wasn't merely a ploy for that small wealth. And he knew this hideaway, however kept and served by Thomas he was in it, was an arrangement that could not last. Ian had every reason, then, to move on when he had the chance. But he'd come back anyway.

And with Ian's return against all odds and suggestion, Thomas hated the Baron and all like him, for abusing Ian to the point he'd begged for death the night of their meeting, for preying on how many other young orphans, and then for nearly seducing Thomas to take his side against the victim he'd rescued. That vile man in mind, Thomas now despised Crowborough with a fresh passion, as another example of the treachery of well-bred and well-heeled 'gentlemen'. And for only a fleeting moment, he wondered how he might rub Philip's nose in his resplendent recovery from that spring's betrayal; Ian was no rich Duke, but was worth more than a thousand wealthy wretches. Huddled in an outbuilding, bringing scraps for dinner, Thomas even resented the Grantham family for requiring him to sneak about, first for simple charity, and now for love.

He might want riches and opportunity for himself and Ian; but he certainly didn't want to become one of the appalling aristocracy. No, he and Ian would have to succeed despite the upper class, amongst other impediments. But, they'd already been through so much in so short a time; he knew they _would_ be able to face well their large and promising future. As Ian had reminded him before drifting off in his arms, Thomas was only a few months into his twentieth year himself; the young couple had no need to rush…(1)

As he closed his eyes for the night, Thomas felt much, but mostly an overwhelming joy, knowing that this was only to be their _first_ Christmas together.

* * *

_**Monday, 2 December 1912** _

"Thomas?" Mary wondered suddenly, after she'd accepted the small pile of letters, pamphlets and even one small box from the mail-delivering footman. "Are you sure no one else in the house has been receiving similar waves of unsolicited post?"

"Just your Ladyship," he confirmed, and made to turn back to his departure, as she smirked.

"And Thomas?" she refused to let him go that easily, and continued at a lower volume. "At luncheon yesterday, Cousin Isobel was quite adamant that your involvement in her Manchester investigations was entirely at her request and instruction…" Her too bright look suggested she was expecting a response from him.

"That's true, my lady."

"And Lady Edith was not a part of this affair in any way?"

Thomas hoped his look would be read as confused rather than concerned at her line of questioning. With apologies to Lady Edith, it was probably best to play to this sister's heightened sense of sibling rivalry. "Mrs Crawley spoke truthfully. And we were both very surprised when Lady Edith and Mrs O'Brien appeared at the train station, even knowing of her earlier… experiences."

"Her hallucinations, you mean?" Mary verbally rolled her eyes.

He smiled non-committally, thinking better than to remind her that Mrs Crawley explained there had likely been a young man at the window, or that Mrs Patmore had also seen a figure, if days after the rascal orphan had been returned to Manchester. Best to let the business drop altogether.

"And cousin Isobel's quick conversation with you as she left us yesterday, more appreciative words from her for that involvement?" Mary smiled admiringly.

"She was very kind," he nodded agreeably. _So, she'd seen their quick exchange about getting Ian to London._

"Mmmm," she didn't quite agree, before tapping a letter on her chin as if thinking deeply. "And yet… his Lordship didn't bat an eye that you'd assisted her, against his express instructions for us all to leave it. As adamant as he's been about the whole affair, he didn't even seem surprised that one of his staff was taking orders, contrary to his wishes, given by a distant relation… by marriage. And not a word about Lady Edith's escapade or your gaining a split lip in the process. I find that all rather odd; don't you?" Her case made, she looked expectantly at him to disagree.

Thomas could only smile blankly, petrified that Lady Mary had not only _not_ been satisfied by Mrs Crawley's midday show, but actually seemed emboldened by it. She smelled foul in the folly; and he was the only unrelated, and therefore the most vulnerable, link to pursue.

With a satisfied grin, she closed her case. "I'd bet the value of every trinket in these sales brochures that there's significantly more going on than anyone at—or around—that table let on. And I imagine that, should it all come to light somehow, there will be significantly more... unfortunate outcomes for many there, beyond just an awkward Sunday luncheon."

Though he wanted to run, Thomas could now only swallow despite his suddenly dry mouth.

Mary proceeded to flip through her mail casually, "I don't know if my sudden popularity with catalogs is related; but I do know that you, Thomas, are at the heart of everything else. Not intentionally of course, just practically; it's what staff are for. So," she looked up with a cool determination, "You're going to tell me everything. If you do, I'll make sure you're able to get away to London on whatever urgent business you and Mrs Crawley have. If not… well, Christmas is _such_ a busy season at Downton, I don't see how we could ever spare such an obviously trusted and capable footman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. As the Downton Abbey Wikia explains, Thomas must have been born by August 4th or 5th, 1896. I've opted here to make him ~two years older than that, to allow more time for him to have left home, learned his craft and moved up to first footman, while still being relatively young, and near Ian's age.


	38. Home Fires

_**Tuesday, 10 December 1912** _

Ian "arrived" in Downton that evening, too late for visiting Mrs Crawley or meeting her son at the house, and late enough for Thomas to send him up to the room directly while he completed registration at the bar, ordered a prepared dinner plate to take up himself, and had a glass of wine as he waited for it.(1)

While the requested fish and chips were prepared, Thomas considered what Ian had faced the last time he'd been a guest at the Grantham Arms. He shuddered to think that just over a month earlier, at one the tables before him now, Ian ate what the old wretch ordered him, as the old wretch watched, while the wretched butler schemed against them both. That he'd left from this room, into the storm and into the clutches of a second set of ill-wishers just up the road.

No, tonight was not about what was. Even later that fateful, post-Inn night, Ian had found his way into Thomas' yard, arms and life. And this night, they'd share a proper bed, in their own private room, on the way to a whole new day and life in London.

In fact, the ten days since resolving most of Ian's nightmarish past had been quite busy with the turn to a brighter, shared future… Thomas had had little choice, and some considerable motivation, to share a version of the Manchester tale with the oldest Grantham daughter when she threatened it from him. Grudgingly, he'd been sure to tell her what he "couldn't possibly" tell her sister or Mrs Crawley, of course; the special confidence would appeal to her vanity, and dissuade follow-up questions or sharings. Thankfully, she was both appalled and satisfied; tales of runaways whose orphan lives were violently ended on rainy back roads tended to have that effect on most polite company.

True to her word, Lady Mary had somehow managed to cajole her parents into letting her accompany Isobel to London, and them both to take Thomas. _After all, Edith had done it, hadn't she? And against the Earl's express wishes. And with no apparent consequence…_ She'd made a good point, and threatened to make it in front of her sisters and the staff; so that her parents really couldn't, and didn't, argue. As he'd learned in his few years at Downton, Lady Mary inevitably got what she wanted.

As the traveling party was settled, Isobel had been able to arrange interview details with her London connections, and Thomas to confirm them "by post" with Ian in Manchester. With gratitude for it all, especially Lady Mary's agreement to keep Mrs Crawley's interest in his "cousin" a secret, Thomas had spent the intervening week coaching Ian best he could to prepare for the interview: etiquette, speaking to his history, acceptable wage types and good amounts, etc. The task was made harder by his own relative lack of experience in such exchanges, harder still that Ian's illiteracy meant no written or read practice when they weren't together. Mrs Crawley had been clear that he couldn't attend the interview with them, for once a chance for her to determine what was appropriate for their interaction; as it was all to Ian's benefit, he was as gracious, if disappointed, as she'd been in reverse circumstances in her new life.

So, he'd be 'free' to attend to Lady Mary—an assignment he still hadn't found a legitimate means of shirking if only to avoid her chilly company. Apparently that was to the price he paid for Ian's opportunity. And so he downed the last of the wine as his tray arrived, and wished all the night's intoxication would suffice him through the morrow's trials.

* * *

"You make a good fire," Thomas observed as he returned from his turn in the bath. Seeing the plate had been cleaned, he chuckled at the simple tastes of the man who preceded him to the bath, and would be joining him in bed. He stepped behind Ian, and wrapped his arms around the fire tender who was wiping his good hand clean.

"One of the old caregivers at the… in Manchester, she taught me," Ian explained, as he reciprocated the embrace and took in the cool touch and fresh smell of his admirer. "She said a good fire was important, so folks could always follow it home."

"Did she mean actual flames, or somethin' more… metaphorical?"

"'Meta' what?"

Thomas dismissed it as unimportant with a head shake; but Ian deduced, "I think she meant more than real fire. But I never thought about… that place as more than somewhere to be, or to get out of." He reached up to gently trace Thomas' face, "But I'm grateful for that lesson at least, since I did follow the lights the one night it mattered, and look what good it brought me…"

"Well, I'm certainly enjoyin' all the fires you started since," Thomas wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, as he leaned in for a deep kiss. As they both grew warmer entangled before the fire, he twisted suddenly and carefully scooped the surprised but grinning Ian into his arms. Draping his lighter haired lad across the fresh sheets, he slid in beside him. "You're fed, bathed, housed and nearly employed; and I intend to celebrate the occasion accordingly. To just the beginnin' for us…"

* * *

The fireplace glowed low across the room, as Thomas chuckled at their having undone much of their earlier ablutions. He groaned at having to make the mature suggestion that, "We should sleep; we'll both need to bathe again before heading out."

"Small price…" Ian admitted contentedly and guiltily as he ran his fingers through Thomas' chest hair.

A moment later Thomas asked, "What?" when Ian's finger paused mid-trace of his navel and its neighborhood. He didn't have the same all-seeing gaze as the younger man, but he'd learned that Ian's touch, or hiccups therein, often belied his thinking.

Laying his hand flat across Thomas' stomach, Ian turned his face up with a pensive look. He took a breath and asked, "Are you happy?"

The older man blushed, "I'm fairly certain we just had evidence of that." He pressed his lips against the curious forehead. "But I can prove it again, if you need…"

"I've no doubt of that," Ian laughed, as he slid his hand back up onto Thomas' chest. "I meant, about everythin' of the past month, and even more into tomorrow."

"You make me happy," Thomas assured the sudden doubt. "Happier than I've ever been."

"And you, me," Ian added with a kiss on the chin. "But, for a month, it's been mostly you doin' all the work, all the givin'. You serve at the house all day, and then take care of me at night and every half day."

"They pay, house and feed me in exchange for my labour," Thomas reminded, as he sat up a little against the insecurity he felt joining them in the bed. "And then I get to live, to share life, when I'm with you."

"But it's _all_ carin' for others," Ian insisted, adjusting himself to sit up and take Thomas' nearer hand. "And you've said you don't want to live a life of service. You want more; and I want you to be happy. You deserve that, you know."

"So you keep tellin' me, and keep makin' me… Truly," he rested his head against Ian, and smiled eye to eye. "Bein' at Downton has already helped me learn a great deal, and begin to make connections. They need me; and I suppose I like that dependence in a way; but it's all for pay and experience. You needed me at first," he shushed the start of a protest, "but I'm certain, especially after Manchester, that now you also _want_ me, aye? Not because you have to, but because you care…"

Ian nodded furiously, with a kiss to the held hand.

"And I doubt I'll ever say the same for the Granthams and staff," Thomas continued with a roll of his eyes. "What's more, I want _you_. I knew that even afore we moved you out of the house. And the night after the city trip, I was miserable at havin' hurt you, at thinkin' I'd lost you… Because more than want, I _need_ you, Ian. I love you. And that's not something Thomas Barrow says lightly."

Nearly overcome, Ian nuzzled in against him, nose beside nose. So close, he shared in a whisper born of a bursting chest, not caution, "I can't shout it in the halls or streets; so I'll say it to the only ears that matter: I love Thomas Barrow."

He sat back slightly, so that watery-eyed Thomas could see him expand on the confession. "And that's not something I've ever felt about anyone, much less said about a single other soul in the world."

Thomas inhaled sharply, pulling him closer with one arm and pulling their clasped hands to his chest.

"I _will_ make this London chance work, for you," Ian promised further. "I'll pull my weight for us. I want to make you happy, and keep you so."

"You already do," Thomas forced out, thumbing the ruddy cheek that curved into a matching smile.

They held each other still for a moment. Morning, baths, trains and interviews could wait, or not come at all, for all either cared at that moment.

"Fire's goin' out," Ian observed quietly.

"No chance," Thomas grinned, maneuvering to bite playfully, first at Ian's jaw, then the nape of his neck…

* * *

_**Wednesday, 11 December 1912** _

Later that morning, the pair were clean, fed and still punctual to the station, arriving in time to purchase their tickets and be out front to greet the Abbey car, and its _three_ passengers.

"Thomas! Ian!" Mrs Crawley exclaimed happily as age bested status for exiting. "So good to see you, and for such an exciting day!" She stepped over to acknowledge Thomas' nod and Ian's now habitual, slight bow, before turning to make introductions. "And, Ian Barrow, this is Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham."

Ian bowed more noticeably to the forced smile from the beautiful young woman, as Thomas waited beside him with a roll of drawings.

"And this is my son, Matthew Crawley…," Isobel continued, as the much friendlier man stepped out and toward them.

"Thomas," he nodded, before sticking out his hand to the younger man, "Ian, so nice to finally meet you. Mother's spoken highly of your gift for art and your good manners."

"Thank you, sir," Ian both blushed and looked pained, glancing at the proffered handshake while his etiquette was being praised. He looked from Isobel, to Thomas, to Lady Mary and back to Thomas. "Am I allowed with him?" he stage whispered through a forced smile of his own.

"Of course," Matthew laughed to beat them all, before realizing the incapacity of Ian's right arm, "Ah, but it's the other hand today." He switched to his left, and took the tentatively extended counterpart.

"It turns out Matthew has some business in London, and was able to join us, at least for the train down. The more, the merrier, for an auspicious day," Isobel grinned as she took Ian by the good arm and headed toward the platform.

 _Oh, goody!_ Mary's cheeks-only smile seemed to suggest before she stalked after them.

"I'll just see to the luggage then, shall I, sir?" Thomas almost sneered, as Matthew's whimsical decision had increased the service expectation on him, without warning and on today of all days.

"It's just an overnight bag for myself, in case it's needed; and an empty case for presents I hope to have a spare moment to purchase… Actually, you know, I'll get them myself," he corrected, pulling a bank note from his jacket, "if you wouldn't mind seeing to the tickets instead."

Unclear whether the solicitor didn't trust him with the bags—less than with money?—or didn't wish to impose on him, Thomas nodded curtly and headed off to the ticket agent before the Mancunian could clarify, and inevitably make it worse.

Another Crawley, _this_ Crawley especially, to keep track and keep happy had not been part of the plan. And mixing this Crawley with Lady Mary meant that all of Downton was going to be even more interested in what transpired today, overall and between them specifically. The two Crawley trip had officially become a three ring circus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Carson will put Alfred up for night here in episode 4.06; and Branson stays here when fired. So the only inn in town is obviously not too posh for the servant class.


	39. King's Cross Purposes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The muse is with me; so two chapters today! Please enjoy, review and look for more soon...

London could be a very un-pretty city in winter. Colder than its northern country cousins due to Atlantic Ocean currents, it was a great expanse of grey sky, over grey buildings gathering gobs of grey people. Christmas was thus most welcome, as it offered temporary relief in festive wreaths, warm(ing) drinks and the potential for good company.

Half expecting Lady Edith to turn up any moment, Thomas stood under some garish garland in London's King's Cross Station, wishing for a drink, and about to say 'goodbye' to the only member of the party he cared to spend time with. The train ride down had gone too quickly, prying Ian's attention from the passing countryside to talk through final scenarios for the interview, or trying to figure out how he would handle the dual wards of Lady Mary and middle class Matthew. Ian had encouraged him to be nicer to the heir apparent, in general, in case he was the new lord at Downton, and because his mother was being so kind despite their difference in status, if not actual human worth. He didn't want to like the new man, and knew Lady Mary didn't; but he had to be polite in person, at least until he could escape Downton for his own happy ascension with Ian.

That artist approached him, taking advantage of a passing throng to touch his hand inconspicuously. "Lady Mary doesn't seem happy about having to spend the day with Mister Crawley."

"Which means my day will be sheer joy as well..," Thomas confided, before realizing that might sound like a complaint against Ian's better fortune. "I didn't mean…"

"I know," Ian assured, understanding as always. "I'd rather you were with me too. Try to enjoy a day in London, for me, if not for them or yourself?"

"Always for you," Thomas assured with a daringly open look of adoration. Turning and pretending to wipe a spot on the smiling cheek as an excuse to physically emphasise that affection and a reminder, "And you, enjoy some time with Mrs Crawley as you impress her publisher friends. I know they won't be able to resist you either… Just remember what we talked about, don't let them put you on the spot for a decision, and, all else failing, follow Mrs Crawley's lead. I don't think she'll lead you wrong. Speaking of…"

"Are we ready?" Isobel beamed to one half of the pair in particular, as she and Mary approached. "Mr Crawley is arranging for his luggage to be handled; but Ian and I should head on."

Thomas grinned as Ian swallowed and took a deep breath. He pulled off the man's cap, rubbed his hand on the fuzzy head, and returned the hat to a perfect, confident tilt. "Mrs Crawley has generously opened this door for you, Ian. I know you'll sketch and smile them all the way from there. Thank you again," he said to the older woman.

"Not yet," she smiled. "We'll get this young man to Fleet Street, where he'll do all the hard work, and do so splendidly."(1)

Thomas handed Ian his rolled portfolio, as Isobel wished Mary a good day, "We'll see you all back here this afternoon, with good news, I'm sure."

Her cloud of cheerfulness headed for the taxi queue; and beside her, Ian threw a nervous glance over his shoulder as the crowd absorbed them.

Thomas smiled and waved, hoping more pride and confidence showed in his expression, than anxiety for Ian and his differing days.

"I don't think I've ever seen such genuine affection on you, Thomas," Mary watched him watching.

Putting on his upstairs demeanor more completely, he simply nodded and explained, "Of course, I am proud of and for the family as well, my lady. But, as with all the staff, I'm not to introduce my feelings in front of the family."

"And speaking of, I am sorry for Mister Crawley's imposition on us both," Mary said as she looked about impatiently, her own moment of human connection now over. "It would seem his Lordship made the 'suggestion' at luncheon yesterday, that he accompany us. A surprise indeed."

Thomas' grim look was not entirely put on; but he was also amused that the doting father hadn't given his eldest everything she'd wanted; this twist on the trip was a clear message to that point. And, the Earl did seem to be looking for opportunities to impress, if not impose, the heir apparent on his obstinate oldest.

In fact, Thomas worried that this joint trip _did_ risk her Ladyship actually getting to know the upstart better, and _did_ give him another potential interloper to handle, or at least serve. But the more complicated caravan meant he and Lady Mary wouldn't be alone together for more of her prying questions or strong-armed demands, and that he got to go to London with Ian in the mostly open; and so he'd have to make it work.

"Sorry for that delay," Matthew offered as he hurried over moments later. "As the trip was a bit of surprise for everyone, I also took the opportunity to send word to my colleagues, that I'd be calling after lunch."

Mary smiled coldly, throwing Thomas a side glance at the "surprise" reference.

"And so, Lady Mary, I am at your disposal until at least mid-afternoon. Shall we head out?"

"I need to freshen up after the train," she said instead, before turning and heading deeper into the station. "I'll just be a moment."

"I guess that's a reminder that we act at her pleasure?" Matthew asked the universe, or at least Thomas standing impassively beside him.

Quietly pleased at her asserting that fact, Thomas merely nodded flatly.

"I'm sorry," Matthew demurred, "I shouldn't speak poorly of your mistress, and my cousin. In fact, I think I owe you an apology for my being here at all."

While very true, his broaching the subject, and with regret for it, was as much a surprise to Thomas as was his presence today.

"It became clear on the train this morning how put out Lady Mary really was by my tagging along. And I do understand that I am just another burden for your attention today, away from the structure of Downton, and when you're rightly preoccupied with your cousin's prospects."

"That's very kind of you to say, sir; I assure you I'm as up to my challenge, as is Ian to his." In that single, smiling statement, he'd acknowledged the apology, politely confirmed and even emphasized the burden, not forgiven it, and stressed his own competence.

"I wish him all the best, of course. Mother is quite taken with him, as a person and a project. Please do let us know if she becomes too much," Matthew half-laughed. Clearing his throat as they stood awkwardly together, he tried a different approach to his intended offer. "Speaking of… I wonder whether… well, if there were any way I might be able to make it all up to you somehow today, by… Perhaps I could relieve you of your escort duties, and return your day in London to you? His Lordship _did_ suggest I come along; and I do know the city somewhat well. There's really no reason you should have to… Uhm."

 _For a solicitor, he seemed at an awful loss for any words, much less persuasive arguments for his case_ , Thomas thought. At first he actually didn't understand what Matthew was suggesting; then he was surprised and shocked by it; and then, he also managed not to show his extreme interest at not having to follow the mismatched pair around all day. Still, he couldn't seem too eager to shirk his sacred duty. "I'm sorry, sir, am I to understand that you would like me to leave you and her Ladyship, both unmarried, alone and unchaperoned, in a large city hours from her home?"

Matthew just stared at him, open-mouthed, the blunt distillation of the almost-made request languishing loudly between them. He finally recovered enough to laugh nervously, "Well… When you put it like that… It sounds… You see…"

Thomas relished the awkward recovery attempt, even as he stretched his brain for some way to accept the offer without risking his own good standing with Lady Mary, her parents or, least flexible of the lot, her fairy godbutler.

Before either could try again at some accord, the subject of their negotiation re-appeared with a marked change in her own attitude. Post-loo and with a freshly touched up coif and face, she was almost jovial. "You waited," she seemed surprised, while actually reminding them that they'd been obliged to. Turning to the footman, she explained some of her shift. "Only I've had a splendid thought! Thomas, while I appreciate your willingness to traipse behind today… I know Mrs Crawley invited you down as support for your cousin; and we do wish him well. But, as further reward for your most recent beyond-the-call service to her, Lady Edith and myself, I know we'd all wish you some time to enjoy yourself in London. Perhaps take in some sights, or do some Christmas shopping of your own?" _On your own_ , she clearly meant.

"That's very kind, my lady," Thomas squirmed, sorely tempted by her solving his chaperone obligation herself. "But, I believe I was sent along…"

"To keep an eye on Mr Crawley and me, I know," she cut him off, with a droll boredom at the parental concerns. "However, Mister Crawley is a gentleman, is family, and under enormous pressure to make a good impression on me mostly, given the circumstances. So I know we can count on his utmost probity."

Both men looked flabbergasted at her blunt description and brash maneuver.

Neither could understand fully how she'd decided that, rather than push Matthew away for the trip as everyone expected, she would instead pull him in uncomfortably close. Reports back to her father would show she was nothing but charming and interested—cloyingly so; and Matthew would be forced to endure her most offputting interests, and as well as her presence in his business meetings. If they all wanted her and Matthew to spend some time together, she would provide it in unforgettable spades. And, if Edith got her Manchester adventure without cost, Mary deserved a fun escape of her own; and she'd have it in a bigger, better city.

She took Matthew's arm, and beamed excitedly, "So we'll see to his appointment in Westminster, perhaps dine in Covent Garden, and round out the day with some shopping there, perhaps Harrods –oh, and Piccadilly! He can make sure I'm well taken care, and returned for our train this afternoon. Doesn't that sound marvelous, Matthew?"

Realizing he should have been more careful about what he wished for, Matthew smiled and nodded on cue.

Half the votes in, Mary turned to Thomas' continued and expected professional discomfort at the suggestion he leave them unattended. "You're welcome of course to follow us around all day, pretending to be appropriately interested or uninterested in our conversations, waiting for our capital visit to run its course, if you prefer, and then for us all eventually to meet your cousin and Mrs Crawley. But, please know that you needn't do so, merely for _our_ sake… Right, cousin Matthew?" _In truth, really, you mustn't._

Thomas smiled automatically at the offer/order from a member of the family. For having made the same suggestion moments before, and despite his shaky affirmative nod, Matthew suddenly looked quite afraid at the prospect of being the sole member of this renewed whirlwind's entourage. And Lady Mary's intention was clear, whatever her motives. And the independent offers from both were more than he could have hoped for. But, he needed to be sure he had sufficient cover from other interested parties… "That's very kind, your Ladyship. I simply wonder what Mister Carson-"

"You leave Carson to me," Mary interrupted, confident in her ability to handle her mutually favorite staff member. "And, for us all to enjoy our day in London, we'll all have to rely on one another's discretion." Indeed, they'd all face consequences should anything actually untoward occur, whether they were together or separate.

Rather than agree on the record, Thomas simply nodded his acquiescence to both their wishes. _I was basically ordered away by them both_ , he could say as last resort.

"Excellent," Mary nearly squealed with lavish enthusiasm, before pulling Matthew toward the street. "We'll see you all back here this afternoon. I simply can't wait to see these offices. Or is your business with the Courts? How exciting!"

Her cloud of manufactured cheerfulness headed for the taxi queue; and beside her, Matthew threw a nervous glance over his shoulder as the crowd absorbed them.

Thomas smiled and waved, wishing the poor sod good luck or quick endings. _Better you than me, chap!_

Finding himself unexpectedly alone and unencumbered for the day, Thomas took a moment to breathe in the freedom and consider his big city options. He'd intended to shadow Lady Mary's shopping, keeping an eye out for Christmas purchases he could make quietly and have shipped, or follow up about by post. Before that plan, he'd considering making use of Lady Edith's catalog avalanche; but now he could peruse in person. Beyond a few items he had in mind, the day's complete independence meant he could also drop in on a few addresses he'd pulled from the papers.

Smiling as he strolled out into the metropolitan possibilities, he wished for Ian to have even a fraction of the luck he was having that morning. He hoped they could get used to London and all it offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The historical center of publishing in London, two miles south of King's Cross Station, toward the River Thames. Perhaps best well known as the setting for Sweeney Todd tales.


	40. Unexpected Gifts

**_Wednesday, 11 December 1912_ ** _(cont)_

Despite a "free" day in London, Thomas Barrow's list of opportunity errands made him late arriving back to the station for the afternoon rendezvous. Never mind a clockmaker's son being tardy, or a Downton footman unpunctual, Thomas didn't want to disappoint another budding professional, or leave him open to unnecessary interrogation by any others.

Pushing his way briskly through the King's Cross crowd, he finally caught glimpse of Ian sitting alone on a bench below the main station clock, picking at his sling and stretching his good hand, with his cap obscuring his downturned face.

Happy at the chance to surprise, and perhaps share a word alone, Thomas dropped to the bench beside him, boldly noting, "Pardon me, sir, but it just wouldn't be right to let a handsome gentleman as yourself-"

Looking up with a brave smile that cut Thomas off cold, Ian quickly dropped his head again, unable or unwilling to look his returned charmer in the face.

"What's wrong?" Thomas turned toward and almost threw his arms around him, nearly not remembering they were sitting in full view of everyone. "Are Mrs Crawley or the others about?" _What had they done, or let happen?_

"She's in the loo," Ian whispered.

"Wink, what's happened?" It was all Thomas could do not to tell London to sod off, and scoop up the other man in protective comfort. _What could possibly have happened to leave him so downtrodden?_ Hand on shoulder the best he dared do, Thomas dropped his voice, "Tell me?"

Ian looked up at him, his eyes wet and story halting, "They got one look at me arm… But the missus convinced them to let me draw. So, they had me do… for hours, listin' things I should sketch and timin' me. Askin' for places and things I'd never seen or heard of…" He trailed off as his head dropped again. "They could tell I can't read…"

Thomas stroked his neck along the collar, shared heartache and his own rage building. "Ian…"

"Ah, Thomas!" a too cheerful voice called out, snapping both men to their feet, at an appropriate distance and with suitable countenance. "So sorry. Of course I'd have stepped away at the very moment you arrive. And, I'd so hoped to see your expression when he told you."

Thomas' polite smile toward her turned openly to irritation. Less honestly, he said simply, "My expression?!"

Isobel's own face dropped as she realized there was some disconnect at play. Her smile clinging weakly, she looked from Thomas' annoyance to Ian's more stoic demeanor.

"Thomas…," Ian started, putting his hand on the taller man's fidgeting arm.

"I thought you'd be pleased, excited even," Isobel pressed on to explain. "They've hired him. He's to start Monday morning!"

* * *

The train from King's Cross was full of north-goers, such that Thomas and Ian could only sit side-by-side and platonically watch the passing countryside gradually disappear in the dusk. Thomas struggled to withhold his smiles, bursting as he was with pride for his newly employed artist, and with rapturous joy for the continued direction and pace of their luck. Unable to understand Ian's continued lackluster reaction to the accomplishment, Thomas had also been unable to ask him about it with the younger Crawleys arriving almost immediately after the older. Since boarding, he'd been unable to get Ian to look away from the window; the only connection he'd been able to maintain was sitting so that his thigh and foot pressed against Ian's.

At York, Thomas quickly made sure Lady Mary, Mrs Crawley and their luggage were ready to board the transfer, still sharing stories of their respective London days and their shared disappointment that Matthew was not able to prolong his visit with Mary on the return trip. Without knowing the details, Thomas could tell that Lady Mary was insincere about her regret, and much amused that his availability had decreased so drastically through their afternoon alone together.

By happier happenstance, there were few enough passengers and more than enough seats in third class, that Thomas was able to slip an older couple a few coins to move up, leaving him and Ian the final car to themselves. Pulling the shades against the night, and any latecomers, Thomas pulled Ian against him, turned his chin up and gushed, "I will ask about your melancholy in a moment; but first I need you to know how unsurprised, and impressed, and proud, and pleased that the publishers recognized the gift who also walked into their lives." He kissed his way round Ian's face to the lips, and grinned as the younger man couldn't help but smile at the smothering love. "There we are… That's a better look on you."

The train lurched forward, confirming their solitary space for the brief evening run to Downton.

"I don't mean to be down," Ian volunteered, leaning in against Thomas in support of his warmer tone. "I'm excited, and grateful, I am. And I want to do you proud, and I will… It's just… I guess I didn't think it could really happen. Everythin' since you has been like a dream; I've never had it so good. But… this is all new, and big, and… and scary. And I don't want to mess up, not for you."

Unsurprised, Thomas nodded at the understandable fears of his man, new to the world; London, work, life itself was no small or easy thing. He took Ian's face in his hand, vowing, "I will tell you everythin' I can, and you'll figure out the rest, by hook or crook. You are strong and smart; but you can't just do it for me, touchin' as that is. You're a free man, a gainfully employed artisan; the world is openin' up for you. You want that, don't you?"

"Not without you."

Thomas pressed his lips against Ian's forehead, sighing at the core concern he shared, but could do little about. At least initially. "I've told ya, we can't make a life at Downton; so you have to go. But I promise ya again that I'll follow, quick as I can. 'Cause I hate every minute we're apart too."

"I know. And I don't mean to complain about carryin' my share…"

"I'd be worried if you took off too easily," Thomas grinned. "I like bein' hard to leave. So, we both have to remember it's only for a little while. And, to make it easier in the meanwhile, I had some time today to make some arrangements that will help you get by until I can join you."

Reaching into one of his interior jacket pockets, Thomas pulled out a handful of papers and explained each to a calmer companion. "Fully expectin' you to charm those printmen, I inquired with a few boarding houses near your office-to-be; Misses Babcock has a lovely room for two charming 'cousins' to share, and has poor enough hearing to mind her own business. She'll provide your meals, includin' a sack lunch, durin' the week. I've opened a bank account in both our names; so you'll have access to that for weekend meals and incidentals. Workin' late to make a good impression on the bosses, readin' classes, and your choice of churches no one you know attends… the time will fly by until I can get down after Christmas."

Ian looked pained at the suggestion they not have Christmas together.

" _If_ I can't…," Thomas corrected half-truthfully, knowing that likelihood would need to be discussed at some point. "I also ordered a few new suits for you, as you can't wear the same thing every day; I'll just let the shop know to send it all to your London room instead of Downton. And though Mrs Crawley picked up this pamphlet about readin' courses and smoothed that over with your new boss, Mister Davies, Mrs Babcock has agreed to write down or read any correspondence for you until I can move down."

Thomas said nothing of the varied purchases whose receipts occupied his other pocket, despite being as excited about them. "We have a few days to think through any other possibilities; and I know you'll work out anythin' we don't think of." He looked over Ian, expecting him to be overwhelmed by the paperwork and details.

Instead, Ian was looking at him with a glaze of astonishment and admiration. "You've thought of everythin'. Again."

"Well, you see, I have _such_ the muse…," Thomas kissed him. "And I checked on some possible positions for meself too; but don't have anythin' just yet. I'll give notice at Downton as soon as I do, and be waitin' on ya, in our room, as fast as the first train can get me to London."

"It's all so un-real, and that together time, so far off," Ian sighed as the train began to slow into their stop, cutting off their conversation at least until bedtime.

"It'll be hard, love, I know," Thomas reminded, as they held each other close a quick moment more. "But that wait's not forever."

* * *

Still ruing the lingering consequences of Guy Fawkes Night, the 7th Earl of Grantham was finishing some letters, and nursing a drink, in the library, as he waited for the dressing gong. As the day drew to a close, he could only hope that Mary's excursion now made her and Edith even, and brought her and Matthew closer. Edith had long stopped seeing mysterious men around the house, as had Mrs Patmore, blessedly. But Mary hadn't missed an opportunity to dredge it up to everyone's dismay. With a day trip each under their belts, and Christmas traditions to distract, perhaps today marked a true new chapter toward happier times and to new relations. He'd drink to that.

As he did so, the click of steps and creak of doors in the foyer indicated the travelers had returned. Rising to greet them, he heard Mary reporting to Carson on the dull company of the day. So much for progress on that front…

"Present company excepted," Mary threw at Thomas over her shoulder.

"It doesn't seem to have dissuaded you from hitting the shops," Robert observed, as the footmen passed by with armloads of bags and boxes. "I hope Matthew didn't feel pressured to foot the bill for your sampling…"

"It's the same as our money, if you had your druthers," Mary reminded. "But no, I've no desire to be in his debt."

"You were… cordial today, I hope?"

"I was more than cordial, papa," she scoffed, then smiled wickedly, with a quick kiss to his cheek. "As for my holiday generosity, I'd so many ideas from the wealth of catalogs I've received of late… Besides, the family _has_ grown by two; and we must make them welcome, at Christmas above all."

Robert balked as Thomas and William went out for a second load.

"'Tis the season," Mary quipped before heading upstairs. "No peeking!"

Robert hoped the sweet success of both siblings and suitors would be worth the literal expense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fortnight 'til Christmas!


	41. And Ye Shall Receive

**_Wednesday, 11 December 1912 (cont)_ **

Thomas wasted no time in requesting personal time away for the coming Sunday and Monday, to "visit his own family" in London. Best to give as much notice as he could, to maximize the chance of success. And though Mister Carson was not as cross as he could have been just after dinner service, he was much less amenable than Thomas had hoped he would be.

"I know both Lady Mary and Lady Edith are very grateful for your traveling assistance of late; and his Lordship, remarkably lenient given your involvement with Mrs Crawley's… escapades against his wishes. However, _I_ do not take that disobedience lightly, and…" he raised his voice against potential protest, "more importantly, your flurry of sick days and day trips has left the rest of the staff to pick up your duties, however willingly and ably handled."

Thomas wrung his hands at his side, frustrated that the butler was heading off arguments and angles he'd prepared to apply in support of his ask.

"Moreover, we're only just coming into amongst the busiest times at Downton, as you well know. And as first footman, who might harbour aspirations for grander posts, your presence is needed all the more. So, please send your family our best wishes for a Happy Christmas, and do try to focus on your duties within the house, and the good company of your fellow staff at this festive time." Even if they sounded like excerpts from a droll textbook, the last lines were delivered authentically—Mister Carson fully believed in the complete and obvious sufficiency of service.

Thomas considered arguing further, that his travel hadn't been his own, that he would work extra hard once he returned from this mere two day London trip _before_ the thick of festivities; but the head of staff gave every indication there was no more to be said, by either of them. He had hardly looked up from his ledgers, where wine labels and tick marks were as black and white as a footman's status regarding time on and off the clock.

"I understand, of course, sir; but I'd told my parents I would ask." Knowing Ian would be nervous and disappointed, Thomas also trusted him to be more than capable of successfully reaching and settling into the basic of a London routine on his own. But that didn't mean Thomas wouldn't give most anything to be there with him through as much of that as possible, as soon as possible. So, given Mister Carson's Gibraltar-like ability not to yield once set, he turned to securing the next most likely permission-–at least short of convincing the daughters they needed another well-staffed London visit. "Might I be able to offer instead that I'll join them for a few days _after_ the holiday season, in the new year?" A logical and a very reasonable alternative.

This stated intent to further impose on the well-oiled domestic machine interrupted the butler's scribing.

Thomas wasn't initially sure whether the pause was the result of his persistent impertinence, or the lack of a ready rebuttal.

Perhaps as both, Carson glanced up and offered a consolation non-commitment. "Mmmm. Well, I will have to consider yours along with worthy requests from all the other staff. We cannot very well have downstairs empty simply because the calendar's changed and the ornaments boxed. I shall let you know of my decision in due course."

 _As close to a "yes" as the staff statesman was likely to give; and also an "unless I can figure a good excuse against"…_ "I shall trust in your sagacity, as always. Thank you, Mister Carson," Thomas smiled.

That earned him a raised eyebrow, an uncomfortable nod and a hurried wave of dismissal.

* * *

"I thought that's how it'd go," Ian acknowledged, hanging his head.

"Hey now. In the past month I've been away more often than I have in most of me years at Downton put together. So it's no surprise he said no. But," Thomas lifted up the unhappy chin, "It also means I'm more likely to get a day or two more after New Year's, than I would've now. It's not Christmas, I know; but it'll mean even more time together in London for our patience."

Ian forced a smile as he tightened his welcome embrace. "And all this is only if you don't give notice before…"

"One Herculean task at a time, my lovely," Thomas rocked him gently, before peeling away with a kiss. "If you'll let me settle in, I've brought a mince pie, and a pile of biscuits. Mrs Patmore is trying one of Mrs Crawley's recipes, making sure she gets it right afore Christmas proper. And I know a young man with a passion for sweet baked goods that is second only to his taste for rakishly handsome gents in dapper clothes. Or out of them…"

* * *

_**Thursday, 12 December 1912** _

"Thank you, Molesley," Mrs Crawley nodded as he settled tea cups between her and the afternoon visitor.

Lady Edith merely nodded to them both, not feeling the need to fill her day with what would be an overwhelming stream of spoken gratitudes.

As each stirred or selected a morsel, the lady of the house waited until the sitting room door had closed behind the butler to say, "I am sorry it's taken so long to contrive a conversation, just the two of us. I'd so wanted the chance to see how you are given the news from Manchester, and to apologize again that I wasn't able to host you while we were there. The house there really was in no shape to receive." She leaned in, as if to share a particularly private admission. "I'm afraid with only Matthew there some of the week…"

They chuckled politely, if honestly, at the housekeeping implications for the bachelor professional.

"And _I_ am sorry that I imposed on you that Saturday," Edith shared in turn, head and hands contrite. "I just _knew_ that you and Thomas were on to something; and I simply couldn't bear the thought of not being there. Selfish, I know. You would have been well justified to hand me over to my parents on a platter…"

"Which would not have served either of our interests well," Isobel reminded. She did not feel it necessary, or wise, to volunteer that she had already been acting on the instructions of those same parents in the first place. "I had merely hoped to protect you from any unpleasantries in the city, and from your parents' wrath here in the country."

"And so you were wise and kind, with no need to apologize to me," Edith continued the honest pleasantries. "And in fact, I owe _you_ so much for your support, including your raising the issue at the Sunday luncheon after, to prove I wasn't seeing things, at least on Guy Fawkes Night… I was vindicated, and Mary's had to let it drop."

Isobel could see how that victory was at least as important to the young woman as was proof of her sanity. As an only child, with only one child, the sibling rivalry was not part of the older woman's personal experience; layering on the social stakes only made it truly baffling. And speaking of, "Well, we could sit and trade polite apologies and appreciations all afternoon," Isobel pointed out. "I really wanted to see how you were with the news from Manchester, beyond its supportive testimony in the family court."

Her feelings about the new topic were obvious in Edith's sigh and slightly more relaxed posture; she even took up her tea. "I remain grateful for your interest and assistance, of course; Thomas' as well. But for myself… I am relieved, most of all. Even I didn't want to believe what I'd seen that night; but I'd seen it! And the evidence mounted."

Isobel nodded supportively.

"I also feel sorry for the old baron; I do. For the young man to repay his patronage with such behaviour; and to implicate us, me… Disgraceful really. But I suppose letting the gentleman know so, would only prolong the embarrassment for him."

"It's kind of you to consider it still…"

Edith's spirits rose on the compliment, in the safe space, and with the afternoon caffeine. "I only wish we were able to explain my seeing the man again on the gallery, or… or Mrs Patmore seeing him in the dining room."

Isobel grimaced at that still inexplicable extension to the story.

"I suppose I was so caught up in the odd excitement, that I convinced myself and spooked poor Mrs Patmore… Even vindicated, I fear the staff and family think worse of me for the hysteria I caused. Never mind Mary, mama and grandmama must."

Isobel couldn't explain the later visions; and Edith had been a bit reckless in advocating for herself. But the objective observer couldn't, and wouldn't, let the shadow of the formidable family females crush the spirit of this fledgling self-sovereign. "My dear, I will not feign to understand the full scope and impact of the social structures into which my son and I have been drawn—not on us, and certainly not on you who've lived it your entire life. My continued missteps might well be my best Christmas gift to… some of your elders."

She leaned in. "But for the same struggles, it's clear to me that the Crawley women are not just dainty beauties. Your matriarch is no trifle; your mother is a pragmatic transplant in her own right; and… well, Lady Mary isn't the only Grantham daughter who knows her own mind and has some spirit, is she?"

Edith blushed at the truths and compliment shared.

"As the Dowager Countess and your sister are only too happy to remind me, I've only _married_ into the family—and only a distant branch at that. But as your cousin, however close, perhaps as a friend, and for what little it's worth as that outsider, I _applaud_ your curiosity and critical thinking. And I will continue to do whatever I can do support you in pursuit of that intellectual independence."

"Aren't you the revolutionary…" Edith smiled, excited and nervous at the frank and flattering analysis.

"Only quietly, as my presence is still precarious. In fact, to avoid any etiquette outrages, I'd hoped to inquire with you about the pending Christmas rituals… What should we expect by way of Downton merry-making over the next few weeks?"

Edith beamed. Seeking her expert opinion was probably the only way Mrs Crawley could have heaped further praise upon her. Beyond an ally around the stormy visitor, perhaps she had found a friend and mentor as well. "It would be my pleasure," she blushed again and took a biscuit. "Christmas at Downton. Where to begin...?"


	42. Split Attentions

_**Saturday, 14 December 1912** _

As threatened by Mister Carson, the Christmas preparation had begun in full earnest at the manor.

The formal twelve days of Christmastide began early Christmas Day and ended the night before Three Kings' Day, giving way to the Epiphany season, just as Advent led to Yule. But Downton downstairs had its own twelve days and more, these counting down to Christmas—each day and hour holding its own task and test of holiday readiness. Menus were planned and provisions were ordered. Decorations were pulled from storage, cleaned, mended and placed or hung. The great hall was re-arranged to receive and display the tall tree that was selected, delivered and decorated. In and outside the house, other fresh décor was received, entwined, hung and refreshed as needed. Linens, crystal and silverware were counted, washed, pressed and/or polished, and counted again for their singular annual use. Personal fineries were freed from cedared closets, felted drawers and tissued boxes, for their own freshenings. Even the staff had to review their special occasion wear, taking whatever steps were necessary to ensure that they did not detract from the spectacle upstairs. The same for the car, horses and carriages. And, of course, gifts were to be finalized, wrapped and labelled, with an equal amount of care for presentation and caution against prying eyes.

And for their hard work throughout the year, the staff certainly earned their few special moments of this season. A token gift from the masters and perhaps other staff members, an evening of observed freedoms at the Servants' Ball and a more varied cuisine. All the staff hoped that the Granthams would be invited to a large number of events at other estates, leaving them some free afternoons and evenings to catch up with tasks, or relax a little between them. Even better, this year, given the succession tension, the Earl and Countess had chosen not to host anything more than a ladies' holiday tea for a smallish crowd; fewer people visiting to inquire awkwardly, and this to be served at all.

Already stretched by the usual long days, and a month's worth of longer than usual nights, by Saturday, Thomas was particularly exhausted by his efforts to show the butler that he was deserving of extra time off in January. He was also later leaving than intended, as the extra chores were in addition to the daily duties; and so his customary half-day was not to be. Noting the need to rest up for the race to Christmas, he honestly slipped away as early as he could after dinner service, and then slipped out of the house shortly thereafter.

His satchel grew heavier as he trudged toward the hideaway cottage, muscles weary and heart heavy; he was eager to see Ian as always, but loath to begin their last night together for the foreseeable future. Struggling with the competing desires, he stood before the door a moment, before accepting that his hesitation only diminished the scant hours, not delayed their start. With a deep bracing breath of night air, he knocked for what would be their last covert country congress.

With his free hand, he traced the rough shape of the ring in his inner pocket, the circle of silver he'd painstakingly selected on his London free day. He'd been composing a brief sharing and question to accompany it; but having only spare moments since, he'd struggled to hone the ramblings into a worthy sentiment. And he was unlikely to become more eloquent, only more emotional, as this long day stretched on.

On the subject of stretching on, Thomas realised minutes had passed, and still no answer at the door. Atop weary, he was growing cold, and now worried. He knocked again and looked about, as if he might see some reassuring light through the windows he'd covered, or detect some worrying movement outside the secret sanctuary.

Still nothing; and he was truly concerned. He fetched the hidden key, and let himself in. "Ian?" No sign of anything amiss on the first floor; but in the pitch dark, he likely wouldn't know. Up the stairs to the bedroom, a low fire caught his eye as pushed past the heavy curtain strung across the open doorway. "Ian?" No response or other sound, until his gasp at seeing a familiar form stretched out on the floor, face down, before that same fireplace. "Ian!"

The younger man started, and cried out as the sudden move wrenched his shoulder, and again as Thomas grabbed hold of him. "Steady on!"

"You're alright," the footman sighed, alternating between hugging and checking him for evidence to the contrary.

"'Course I am," the stiff and slightly confused sleeper assured. "I packed and tidied all day; must've dozed off studyin' the London maps. I thought you'd be sooner…"

"I meant to be," Thomas smiled in relieved apology, wiping the groggy eye; and they settled on the floor together. He stole a kiss from the pouting lips as he unshouldered his bag. "I told you, the house gets very busy these weeks…"

"So not going to the inn _was_ a good idea after all," Ian grinned victoriously.

Thomas rummaged in his bag, "For the record, I did _not_ concede that you were right. But I appreciate your want to honour our arrangements to date, and not take me further from the early morning shift."

Ian took his hands, "I wanted every minute I could get, until you join me in London."

Deed and word interrupting his search, Thomas gazed back into the smiling eyes. "Mister Colson, this might be a bit forward of me, havin' only just met you a month ago, but I wonder whether you're seein' anyone of significance these days…"

"Well," Ian sat back playfully, "I am much in demand of late, pursued even..."

That Ian now could and would casually laugh about being hunted gave Thomas even more confidence in how far their relationship had come.

"But there might be this one chap I've taken notice of…," Ian continued.

"Does he give you gifts…?" Thomas wiggled his eyebrows, pulling out a large, tied bundle of biscuits.

Ian lit up even further, their game slightly derailed by literally sweeter subjects. "Mrs Patmore tryin' again? Her last batch weren't half bad…"

"Mrs Crawley sent these, actually; her best wishes for the new life." Thomas didn't share that she'd been shocked to find he wasn't accompanying Ian for at least the trip down, and had offered to advocate for him, or attend herself.

Breaking a biscuit to share, Ian mumbled through his mouthful, "I need to get her address, so I can send her note or sketch."

Thomas nodded knowingly, "So she can send you more sweets, you mean." Whether Ian had meant that or not, he knew that such a note would be expected to carry a return address on it. But he wasn't sure it wise for any Crawley to have details on where Ian lived, as it would be where they _both_ would be soon. The less known, the less known…

Both heads snapped toward a creak from the stairs beyond the entrance curtain. They'd both spent enough time, enough nights, in the cottage to be familiar with all its aging, wintry movements and sounds. The stair creak was not one of them.

Not daring to crunch further, Ian looked to Thomas for confirmation he'd heard it too.

Nodding, and motioning him to stay put, Thomas quietly stepped to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and moved toward the door. With no additional sounds reaching them, he nonetheless motioned Ian to make some noise, to laugh or talk.

Understanding himself as a distraction, Ian swallowed hard, and picked up the conversation a little louder than usual. "I wouldn't complain if she sent more, of course. Are you sure you don't want one? Fine then; more for me. But don't say I didn't offer. And don't let me catch you pinchin' one behind me back…"

Having reached the door under cover of the one-sided sharing, Thomas whipped back the curtain in time with Ian's final phrase.

Only slightly more surprised than the two men in the room, perhaps because of the fire iron pointed at her, Sarah O'Brien nearly fell back down the stairs in fright.

Thankfully, none of the three actually cried out aloud at the reveal of the skulking lady's maid.

"O'Brien!" Thomas did hiss, and lower his weapon, mostly. "What the devil are you doing here?"

Exhaling deeply, even as she held a hand to her chest, O'Brien managed to retort only slightly breathlessly, "I could ask you the same, Thomas Barrow. I certainly am _not_ hiding stowaways in his Lordship's homes…" Her voice grew stronger as she recovered from the fright, and attempted to take the high road.

"Come in," Thomas insisted lest she raise alarm across the shared walls, pulling her into the room un-gently and shutting the door behind the curtain. "I assume you're alone?"

"Only takes the one to spring the trap, apparently," she sneered, as she regained a more suitable posture and stride. "And who's this sweet thing?" she asked, approaching the now standing and staring Ian.

"Not that it's any of your business," her colleague insisted, coming over to stand between them, "but…"

"You were on the train to Manchester," she cut him off, as a wicked smile spread across her face. "I remember. You pushed in late like you owned the place. And now, here you are again, where you're not expected…"

"Mrs O'Brien, whatever you're thinking, I can assure you- "

"Ah ah," she tutted him, "Let's hear from the reappearing squatter." She looked expectantly at Ian.

Thomas looked to Ian, wanting to jump in again, as Ian knew little of how sharp O'Brien's perception and fangs could be; and they'd never discussed what to do in the event they were caught in the cottage together. _The door,_ he realized. _She'd not been satisfied with my story and a payoff, followed me down here and came in through the door I left unlocked in my concern that Ian didn't answer._

But, to both Downton staff's surprise, through their whole exchange Ian had simply stared at O'Brien and then begun to smile when she focused on him. Taking a cookie from the bundle, he pushed the rest at Thomas and stepped closer to the imposing figure in black. He gushed, energetic and bashful at the same time, "I am so flattered, Misses O'Brien, that you'd remember me."

He grinned and slapped Thomas' arm playfully. "But I told ya, didn't I, Tommy? I asked who that gorgeous woman was at the station; but you'd have none of it. I can see why you'd want to keep her to yourself, true enough. So you told me to mind my business, and keep my distance. But I couldn't then, not from her, not this vision; and now _she_ has sought _me_ out!"

The lady's maid and footman gawked at him in unison.

"How rude of my cousin, good lady, to surprise and shake a stick at you." Shaking his head shamefully, Ian offered her the cookie, and proceeded to take her by the receiving elbow, while waving Thomas to make space. "Please have seat, and enjoy what simple snacks and company we have to offer..."


	43. Near Distances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for the recent reads, kudos and bookmarks; knowing readers enjoy the product feeds the muse, as we continue...

Having prepared for a heated battle, O'Brien couldn't react to Ian's excited hospitality with more than awkward obedience, stiffly allowing him to seat her fireside and accepting a handkerchief to drape across her lap.

 _What are you doing?_ Thomas telegraphed with a look, as O'Brien arranged the makeshift napkin.

Ian responded with a bat of his eyes and his most charming smile, as he turned back to her. "I can't say enough how happy you've made me, appearin' yourself on me one night here, before I'm back to the city for good. My last chance for an introduction or glimpse…" He started his hand gently toward her face, and pulled it back quickly. "Tommy, have you got more than biscuits? And make her some tea if she's to sit a while."

"Actually-" Barrow and O'Brien said at the same time, neither wanting her to tarry.

"Hush you," Ian scolded the other man, who might understand the strategy, but not like it. "You were goin' to say, my lady?" he turned back to O'Brien, rapt.

She gathered the handkerchief around the barely nibbled cookie, and made to stand. "I can't stay. You see, I'd only come to see where, Tomm—Tho _mas_ , had gotten off to; and I must get back to the house. Long day today; early morning tomorrow; and so much to be done…"

"Oh, don't go!" Ian protested. "Or, if you must, I'll walk you back. We can't send you out into the cold night alone!"

" _Thomas_ can walk me back, thank you, as we'll be going the same way."

"Then I'll accompany you both," Ian insisted eagerly. "So as not to lose a minute with either of you." He headed to the far corner of the room, and clumsily rummaged for jacket, hat and shoes.

Wide-eyed, O'Brien pulled the uncomfortable, and trying not to laugh, footman toward the door. She whispered, "You keep him away from me, you hear? He's… possessed."

"He's smitten," Thomas didn't lie. He just didn't specify the object of that affection.

"I'm twice his age," she excused. "Almost."

"Ian likes a little… experience on his women," Thomas shrugged.

She was not amused. "Why on earth is he here?"

"Just a moment!" Ian shouted over his shoulder as he uncovered his second shoe.

Thomas forced a serious look onto his face, and indicated his own right shoulder. "He came to me for help after a… a work accident. And our 'benevolent meddler,' Mrs Crawley, came upon us in the village, noticed his arm, and made him the latest victim of her middle class medical mercies. I'll admit, her contacts probably saved his arm, if not his livelihood; but it's meant he's been between Manchester, here and London a few times in the last month."

 _So that's where you've really been, and why all the hushed whispers and rushed travel._ "And you've put him up here?" she confirmed, admired and judged at the same time.

"Well, we can't afford a suite at the inn, can we? And having met him now, would you have brought him anywhere near the Abbey?"

She didn't say no, as they both looked over to see the young man grinning and struggling to get either shoe on with one and a half good arms.

Thomas drove the point home. "Not that he hasn't asked—begged really, at least to stop by Downton, in hopes of catching a glimpse of his 'fair Sarah'…"

She shot him such a look, before it faded quickly as she straightened her coat. "Well, I'm... flattered, of course. But I've got enough trouble with one Barrow tagging along behind me all my days."

"So sorry; almost ready!" came the cry from the corner.

"He's me only family," Thomas apologized.

"You have parents and a sister."

"…me only family worth bothering with."

"Only who'll bother with _you_ , you mean," she nearly smiled.

"As I recall, you have a nephew you have plans for?" he fired back.

"A footman let go for lying, stealing and shirking his duties, that could mean promotions up the line, and a hall boy opening for young Alfred."

"How about I keep my lovestruck cousin at bay, while you make your escape tonight," Thomas negotiated. "And we'll keep this sanctuary, and its history, off the record should either of us need it down the road?"

"Ready!" Ian charged back to them, dressed for an outing. He held out his good arm, "My lady?"

O'Brien looked from him back to the waiting Thomas, weighing her options. She didn't care for either; but Thomas' offer was immediately beneficial, and didn't preclude her letting slip his sub-letting in the future if it served her. So… "You're most kind… Ian, is it? But I'm quite able to see myself back to the house; and wouldn't wish to interrupt this rare family reunion."

Ian looked crushed, and to his kin for some support. "But-"

"Now, Ian," Thomas pulled him away, "Mrs O'Brien found her way here well enough on her own; and her strength and fearlessness are just more of her… alluring qualities to admire."

"But you said the 'Misses' didn't mean she was married," Ian pretended to whisper to him. "You told me she weren't spoken for."

"She speaks for herself," Thomas said with a stern look, suggesting the conversation was over.

Ian looked back to the hand-on-door visitor. He seemed ready to say, if not shout, something more. But ultimately, he dropped his gaze to the floor, and pulled his arm from Thomas' grip. "Very well… But," he looked up to O'Brien, "As I'm not likely to visit, to see you again, for some time, might I have some small token from you, to remember tonight?" He briefly puckered his lips.

Thomas almost laughed aloud. Instead, he looked away, as if in embarrassment.

O'Brien's signature stone face had settled in, even as Ian stepped tentatively, if hopefully, toward her. When he'd reached an arm's length from her, her arm shot out, and offered him the wrapped biscuit. "I do hope you're feeling better. And I thank you for your… hospitality."

He sighed as if his wish were granted, took the ball of fabric, and in one quick motion, grabbed her hand, leaned in and kissed it.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she wrenched her hand loose, and hurried through the door and curtain without a second glance.

Shaking his head, Thomas playfully knocked Ian's cap off, and followed to see her out and to lock the cottage door behind her.

Returning quickly, as O'Brien's retreat didn't pause at the outer door, Thomas found Ian still working to take off all the outerware he'd piled on for his performance. Thomas approached, laid a chuckling, lingering kiss on top of his head, and asked as he helped with the myriad buttons, "Not that I'm not again sorely impressed by your people skills among others, but truly, where the hell did you get all that?"

"You're welcome," Ian smiled and kissed his cheek. "You'd told me she had a contrary nature, as well as a vain streak. And _I_ never said Mister Tutwiler was a saint to his children, or widowed patrons…"

"I hate him again. And love you all the more." Dropping the final shirt to the floor, Thomas took Ian's face in both his hands, and traced the high cheeks as if they were fragile glass. "I have known, and watched, and noticed many people in my life, too many. But I have never known the… wonder and joy you raise in me. I am mad happy for ya, with ya and 'cause of ya, Ian Colson."

They kissed until Ian couldn't stay on his tip toes any longer.

Thomas leaned in to lay a trail from lips lower, but Ian pulled away. His hand gently atop his footman's heart, he asked, "If tonight's our last for a while, I want to fall asleep against you, savorin' you, not spent. No talk, no quick heat; just together, like our first nights."

Not what he'd planned or expected, but standing there, in ongoing awe of this unearned angel, Thomas could not think of anything he wanted more. He pulled Ian against him, not driven by lust, or urgency, fear or excitement—nothing the body or calendar might demand. They simply shared the tender connection, each knowing he was wholly cherished.

* * *

_**Sunday, 15 December 1912** _

Thomas woke to the briefest ring of an alarm clock. Ian's good arm slid across his back, and gently caressed him from hind to head.

"Good mornin'," the familiar, quiet voice whispered over the steady beat of the full heart under Thomas' ear.

"Can't be mornin' already; not fair," Thomas complained, quick to recall the finality of this particular pre-dawn.

"I've let you sleep an extra hour..."

"What?!" Thomas sat up in a fright.

Ian smiled knowingly, and shivered from his chest's sudden meeting with the morning's chill. "I wanted more time with you in me arms. Well, me arm."

"But!" Thomas argued, grabbing and squinting at the clock in the low firelight. "I have to be back…"

Ian sat up, set down the clock, put his arm around Thomas' waist, and nestled his head into the frantic man's shoulder. "I don't want you to take me to the station, where we can't do much more than a handshake. We'll make our goodbyes here, in our place. You can go directly to the Abbey at the last possible moment; and I'll pack and get meself to the train. I'll have to do for meself for a while startin' today anyways."

"I don't want to make goodbyes at all," Thomas confessed, wrapping himself and the blanket around Ian.

"Come with me?"

"So temptin'."

"Thought I was an angel," Ian smiled.

"You are; more than you can appreciate," Thomas began to sniffle.

"No tears, love," Ian smiled and kissed them away, poorly hiding his own as he stood. "I'll help you dress. I want the happy image of a bare you at me fingertips, as it's all I'll have of you for a while."

Silent except the occasional throat clearing, the two men dressed one another, too frequently finding themselves slowing or stopping their movements entirely, to simply rest in close contact. Having talked through all the plans for staying in contact during their separation of uncertain length, there was no need to fill the space with repeated details; just being near was more important.

* * *

Checking he had the last of his own things, Thomas's fingers ran across the ring still in his pocket; and he looked over to the beautiful, fire-lit man trying not to make red-eyed eye contact. Finding it hard to swallow, much less speak, he decided the gift and request deserved a happy, lasting moment, not one pressured by time and focused on loss.

"I should be off," he regretted, as Ian nodded.

Holding a candle in his slung arm, Ian let Thomas take his good hand, and lead them downstairs. A lonely cold now just moments and feet away, Thomas set the candle on a shelf beside the door. Taking Ian's hands, he kissed them, held them against his cheeks, and reminded, "I love you."

"I love _you_ ," Ian stepped in against him for the umpteenth kiss in as many minutes. "I have to go, it's true," he started their familiar refrain.

"But I'll follow, quick as I can," Thomas finished the promise.

Forcing in a deep breath, Thomas opened the door, pressed his lips against Ian's and stepped back into the darkness. Turning away as the door closed behind him, he relished the smile and wink that sent him on his way.

* * *

Late that morning, Thomas hurried back to his attic room to change from Church clothes into luncheon livery. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a break in the otherwise crisp lines of his properly made (and unslept in) bed. He pulled at the corner of something just peeking out from under the prim pillow. Sure it had not been there before he left for services, and amazed yet again for the supernatural skills of its delivery, he sat, smiled and didn't control the tears as he relished the simple sketch of two very familiar hands, intertwined.


	44. By Hook, Crook or Post

_**Friday, 20 December 1912** _

Turning away from the candlelit face of his handsome love that mid-December Sunday morning, was the hardest thing Thomas Barrow had ever done. He knew it was necessary, and only temporary; but the image of Ian's sad, strong, barely lit face in the doorway continued to haunt him, night and day, despite the holiday.

The first few nights back at the Abbey were the worst. Thomas found himself planning or even taking steps to slip from the house each late night, only to realize there was no elicit rendezvous to make. He had trouble finding rest in his own bed, as it had been a stranger for much of the past month; on his return, it was at first too soft, too large, too cold and ever too empty. At meals, he made to pocket a spare strip of bacon or slice of cheese, before realizing he had no one waiting for it.

And, lacking these actual connections to his absent angel, he again began to catch glimpses of tow-headed and even arm-slung figures across rooms and up staircases. Yet he dreaded taking a lone smoke break in the courtyard, lest no figure appear.

Despite the absence of a presence he'd grown so fond of, even dependent on, in just a month, his energy and work improved, even if his attitude did not. He was in bed earlier and waking later without the cottage runs to make; and eventually he was sleeping his lonely nights through, rather than … _not_ sleeping accompanied. He applied the extra rest to his duties, better able, if not more interested in preparing and serving a never-ending stream of fine living experiences, entirely for others. And through the more painful performance, he constantly reminded himself that any hope for a quick reunion relied entirely on his pleasing the unpleasant butler. Even if he hoped to leave it behind permanently, his complete delivery and decorum now needed to be exemplary; and he made it so.

Downstairs, the other staff noticed the change in energy level, even if they didn't appreciate that his month of relative, if unexpected, cheerfulness seemed to have ended. Only Mrs O'Brien and Mister Carson didn't seem to care. The former because she thought she knew at least why he wasn't so tired anymore; and the latter humbug only concerned himself with the efficiency of the daily and Yule chores. To the man whose opinion mattered, a dour Thomas was perfectly acceptable so long as he was a dutiful Thomas.

Upstairs, the only perceived change in staff were those the family requested, as their expectations were high, and their attentions focused on a different mix of spirits. General holiday happiness mingled with the awkward integration of new relations into the traditional festivities. Some of the core family remained more welcoming than others, though even the hardcore mothers had to admit, both new Crawleys were handling themselves quite well. The Dowager Countess had suggested irritably that a certain Earl must be counseling them on Christmas social conventions, rather than spending that time fighting the inheritance entail. Lady Grantham had smirked at the suggestion; Lady Mary had rolled her eyes; and Lady Edith had smiled quietly to herself. Regardless of the reason, Violet faulted the interlopers nonetheless, if only for the suspiciously good behavior.

This particular afternoon, Edith smiled as she watched Mary smiling irritably at one of cousin Isobel's tasteful comments, while opening the next ornate card from the pile that had arrived in the morning's post. So popular was the trend among the good families across the realm, that Lady Grantham assembled all the Crawley women on several cold afternoons, between their occasional soirees away, to organize the political dance of updating their own recipient list and addressing each outgoing piece of winter wishes.

"A competition for the gaudiest greetings," the Dowager proclaimed, as she flipped disdainfully through an incoming pile as the others toiled.

"Some are quite nice," Cora made nice, holding up a rather colorful one. "Lady Austell notes that she's made each of hers by hand."

"Well, what else has one to do whilst wintering is Isselswich?" Violet judged only somewhat rhetorically.(1)

Cora smiled and looked back to her stack, having made her effort.

Mary picked up the volley, toward a different target. "Perhaps Edith should sign for those families she's written to most recently?"

"Oh let's not start this again," Sybil sighed. "It's nearly Christmas after all." She alone among the family seemed to be truly enjoying this year's season and the larger circle of relations they now had to celebrate.

"Biscuit anyone?" asked Lady Rosamund, not entirely clear on the reference, but knowing well that the afternoon fire and kettle weren't the only potential heat sources in the room.

"Thank you," Mary accepted, before moving over to the tea service, where she noted the immobile first footman among the decorations beside the window. "And have I heard correctly, Aunt Rosamund, that you're looking for a new footman at Belgrave Square?"

All eyes in the room shot up to either the speaker or her subject.

"I only ask," Mary continued coolly, "because, while accompanying cousin Isobel to London last week, we learned that our own able footman, Thomas, here… well, his cousin's just taken a position in the capital. And I believe you've other family there, Thomas? We'd hate to upset the ship of Downton, of course; but perhaps he'd like the opportunity to be closer to them all. London could have the complete- What's your family name, Thomas?"

"'Barrow,' my lady," Thomas eeked out.

"…Could have the complete Barrow set." She smiled as sweetly as the sugar she stirred too casually into her cup.

Half the table that she returned to stared in shock at the blushing footman, while he, the older cousin, and the younger two daughters stared in shock at Mary's public disclosure and suggestion he might be interesting in leaving. The grand and garish cards had been entirely forgotten.

Mary helped herself to another biscuit. She'd earned it.

"Mary!" Sybil intervened again, embarrassed for her favorite servant. "You shouldn't put Thomas, or Aunt Rosamund, so on the spot!"

 _Indeed_ , Cora's glare suggested, as she took the sweet from her daughter's hand and strove to take the attention off the grimacing young man. "Mary, you'll spoil you supper. And the only labor we'll be discussing at this table, is the pile of Christmas cards we've put barely a dent in…. Thomas, could we have more hot water?" She couldn't so easily dispatch her sister-in-law for a breather, but the young man nodded his obedience and appreciation as he quickly headed for the door.

Nibbling at her own handy baked bit, the Dowager Countess nearly grinned with delight at the drama. "Throw in a little music, and we'd all have front row seats at our own pantomime!"

* * *

Thomas paused in the staircase, finally taking a breath after all but sprinting across the gallery. What was Lady Mary thinking, to out his family business to this family? And to suggest he ought to leave, to choose Lady Rosamund and London over this family? What if Lord Grantham heard, thinking it was his idea? Or worse yet, should Mister Carson catch wind of it?

Besides, trading one footman's life for another was not his plan at all; but... it could get him to London. It wasn't perfect; but it was something, a start. And he _so_ wanted to be in London, to be with Ian. In that breathless moment, he actually ached for what he missed, and might now have moved slightly closer to.

From his jacket, he pulled out the letter already read dozens of times since it had arrived the night before. It was the first contact he'd had with Ian since dragging himself from that candled threshold as the week began. As he'd arranged for a little extra each week, Missus Babcock had written out Ian's words to him, just as she'd read his writings back to her tenant. At least until Ian could write and read well enough on his own, or better yet, they were able to forgo the miles and post entirely.

He gently opened the crisp paper, hearing a familiar voice speak the delicate script:

_Dearest Thomas,_

_Thank you so much for the beautiful drawing set. It's nicer than what I have at the office, and will allow me to practice my writing as well as my drawing at home. Watch for your gift parcel soon._

_I remain disappointed that it has not worked out for you to join us, or even visit, by Christmas. But I understand, and hold hopes for the new year._

_So that you know what you're missing, I have been invited with two other boarders to have Christmas dinner with the generous Mrs Babcock. Might you send Mrs Crawley's biscuit recipe? Mrs Babcock has agreed to let me try my hand at making some for us._

_Please let me know how you are doing, and about Christmas at Downton. We are both so curious, and both look forward to news of when you'll come London way._

_Until then, I remain,_

Thomas chuckled at the different, the obviously rough, but the nonetheless clear lettering below: _Ian_. It seemed the scribe had likely coached the letter's form, if not its content; but she had ensured the true author took credit.

He knew that author would have liked to say more, as had he when he'd posted a note of his own first thing Monday morning. But for now, they had to temper both what and how often they corresponded. All the more urgency for creating a more direct connection.

Chuckling and yearning at the same time, he quickly read the second brief note enclosed from the landlady herself.

_As you asked, I insisted Ian not wait until Christmas to open today's delivery from Wilkes & Garvey. It took some convincing, but at last he did; and, as his note suggests, he could not have been more beside himself with joy._

_His penmanship is already improving, as this mailing's envelope will show. He is less confident in his reading, but could not try harder. He claims such determination runs in the family._

_From his helpfulness and manners, to your generosity, it is very clear he comes from a good one._

_Please let us know when we can expect to host a second Barrow gentleman in residence on Arundel Street.(2)_

_Yours sincerely,_

_M. Babcock_

He folded the papers back into the envelope, and ran his fingers gently over his own name, roughly but lovingly copied there by a favored hand he so longed to hold again.

* * *

"Thomas?" Lady Mary's voice called from the foot of the stairs, as he crossed behind this last member of the family to head upstairs for the night.

They hadn't even made eye contact since the awkward situation she'd created that afternoon; but it was clear that she's tarried tonight in order to speak with him directly, and privately. "Yes, my lady?"

She wasted no time in jumping to her point, while remaining one step above him. "I _am_ sorry if I put you out this afternoon. While perhaps… indelicate of me, making the connection publically was the only way I could be sure that Lady Rosamund will have to consider your application genuinely, if you are interested in the position in Belgravia."

He hadn't expected more than a mother-ordered apology; and despite his best effort, his face likely showed his astonishment. Sheer good training allowed him to utter, "I appreciate your… active interest in my career, but…"

Mary cut him off, gently but firmly. "I am happy that cousin Isobel has taken such an interest in you and your cousin; he was charming enough, and I wish him well in London, I do. But despite her being _entirely_ too pleased with her charitable interventions, I also didn't need her to spell out on the train, repeatedly, that you clearly adore one another."

Thomas wasn't sure whether her observation was a good thing.

Not dwelling at all on the depth of the men's connection, she continued to explain a more pragmatic potential motivation for him. "Beyond any interest in being nearer to family, a smaller home in the heart of the city could mean many more opportunities for an aspiring servant, no? I certainly expect, and indeed hope, that _our_ own butler position will not open for a great many years…"

Perhaps she really was just trying to help him move up?

"Should the opportunity appeal to you, any interest or action by you or Lady Rosamund is now arguably my fault. Where it would undoubtedly have been awkward for either of you to initiate inquiries, now you and she can simply be playing out my suggestion, merely to be nice to me." She smiled smugly, having rested her case.

Thomas just blinked at her complex, but solid, reasoning—a gift offered, rather than a trap set. A Christmas miracle?

Watching him consider, Mary didn't explain that, for all his good service to her, he had also become a clear ally of both Edith and Isobel through their Guy Fawkes' related escapades, even before the London introductions. And that alliance she couldn't let go unchecked. Moreover, especially with him in her debt for getting him to his family, she'd then have her own man well-placed near her always informed aunt, and in London more generally. Even if the job didn't work out for some reason, she'd still made the gesture; and so Thomas must still think twice about his Downton allegiances. Happy Christmas to her, all around.

"I am both grateful and… surprised," Thomas finally admitted honestly, wondering if this really was the reunion opportunity he'd not been able to create on his own. "Thank you."

She nodded graciously, reminding as she resumed her ascent, "I know you've kept my confidence concerning London. Besides, I'm heartless, not inattentive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Both the name and place are entirely fictional, to protect the guilty.
> 
> 2\. Just between Fleet Street and the Temple Station Underground stop near the River Thames, this side street was home to a number of actual boarding houses as of the late 1800s, according to _Bradshaw's Guides_. The short lane is now dominated by a new luxury flat complex.


	45. Heard on Low

_**Tuesday, 24 December 1912** _

Over the next several days, Thomas resisted the urge to write Ian daily, or even save up pages of the thoughts and feelings he had, to send as a single, bulk set. For all their sakes, he couldn't impose too much on the reader at Ian's end, nor be too open in speaking through her. Instead, he scribbled a little each evening about the swirling flurries and festivities as Downton Christmas neared, to provide both members of his audience an insight into northern observances as requested. And, hoping each post for needed notes he knew should and would arrive no more frequently than his own, he instead read and re-read Ian's first letter until he could recite it from memory.

He managed to slip away once to the cottage, to clean it up if not out. While there was no specific expectation that Ian would return to him here and need it—quite the opposite in fact, Thomas still needed to remove most evidence of its recent use, just in case someone happened to check it. He doubted O'Brien would out his secret without good reason, but best not to tempt either fate or that fury. And honestly, after a week without Ian, he simply wanted the chance to be near as he could to the absent man. And so he'd relished the hour he was able to carve from an afternoon run to the village, to find the space had been left clean and tidy. Certain nothing was left to spoil, he then sat as he long as he dared in the now gloomy room, wrapped in their blanket, and holding the single sketch he'd found on the table: an anonymous, if instantly recognizable, smile he hoped to take some credit for, and to see again soon.

Demonstrating his worthiness for more time off later and occupying himself from his loneliness now, Thomas didn't take his usual Saturday half-day, and instead focused on caring for the visiting relatives and occasional other guests. Lady Rosamund and her lady's maid had settled in; and were supplemented daily by meals, teas and other drinks with a parade of Crawleys, Dowager Countesses, physicians, estate agents, vicars and other annual village notables. Final dining and décor preparations took up other time, never mind his expected attendance at both the family's and the servants' nightly Advent wreath lighting, beyond the always mandatory morning prayer.

Between duties, he scoured the daily papers for opportunities in London, seeking not so much in service, and certainly not in labour. Rather he put his hopes in the growing variety of offices—government or private, expecting that his diligence, discretion and, dare he say, dashing good looks would carry over well from fine families to flourishing finance. While he had little direct experience, he'd spent a quarter of his life doting at the elbows of captains of state, if not industry; thus, he was confident he could handle the people, and learn the details. But beyond his own dearth of familiarity with the industries, the opportunities seemed sparse at this time of year. Perhaps after the holidays. Perhaps Mrs Crawley or, if absolutely necessary, her son could offer some suggestions, if not connections.

In the meanwhile, there remained the open footman position at the Painswick home. Since Lady Mary's rather blunt proposal, Lady Edith approached him, apologizing for her sister's utter lack of tact, and offering to put in a good word to her aunt, even though she'd hate to lose such a supportive friend at Downton. Sybil made a similar offer, simply because she thought everyone ought to be near their family, even if some behaved like her oldest sister sometimes. Mrs Crawley had gladly provided her biscuit recipe, adding that she would miss him, but certainly understand if London served _him_ best. And Lady Rosamund casually affirmed that, while she was loathe to pilfer staff from her northern kin, her butler, Mead, would certainly give his application the highest consideration. He thanked them all, but would not yet commit to them or the merely geographical job shift. Not just yet.

And adding to his being lonely, busy, and balancing trays along with competing interests, Thomas struggled not to grow anxious, even concerned, when his promised parcel failed to arrive each day. For as swiftly as his separation from Ian seemed to be going, the silence since the single initial letter seemed infinite. He'd mailed his second letter to London, knew Ian had opened his Christmas gift already, and assumed the grocer had by now delivered Mrs Babcock everything they needed to make Mrs Crawley's biscuits, along with a freshly butchered goose for her troubles and general good measure. But with only this morning's post to go until after Christmas proper, there'd been no additional news from two hundred miles south.

So, it was with near-desperation masquerading as eager duty and resigned cheer that Thomas stayed near the servants' entrance on the morning of Christmas Eve, intent on greeting the post himself. Before and after both the upstairs and the downstairs breakfasts, he'd smoked in the courtyard and stalled in the kitchen as long as he could, well past the usual delivery time; but had eventually been dispatched to the boot room for a final polish of the entire household's Sunday shoes, for the next morning's church service. Leaving the door open, he perched on the edge of a stool at the near edge of the workbench, and listened for the jingle of bells other than Father Christmas'.

Nonetheless, it was one of the hallboys who happened to be outside when the final delivery finally arrived. "Some help at the door?" the young Michael called down the stairs and hall.

Nearly dropping the patent leather oxford he'd just polished a second time, Thomas bolted to the call, announcing, "I have it!" as he sprinted.

Passing a carefully balancing teen as he stepped into the grey chill, Thomas was greeted not by the postmaster's son on his usual bicycle, but by the village postmaster himself, helping to unload the Thirsk greengrocer's horse cart.

"Happy Christmas, Thomas," the produce supplier said, as he and the postmaster shifted crates.

"And to you, Mister Cox," he smiled back, more interested in what the other, unusual passenger had for him, than the forced wishes or crate of winter produce handed down to him. Heading in with his load, Thomas tried to discern whether and where on the cart or in another staff members' arms, was the mail.

Arms full of outgoing sweet and savory baked goods gifts, Daisy slipped out past him as Mrs Patmore shouted up after her, "One bundle to each, and come right back. And don't invite them in unless they specifically ask! We're grateful, to be sure, but not done for the day. Not by a long shot! Spices here, Michael!"

With the kitchen already full of in-process excess, Mrs Hughes waved Thomas on to the servants hall instead, where everything would be sorted out properly. "All the way down, please," she instructed everyone, calmly watching from her sitting room door.

A few trips more, and the sudden flurry along the hall was over as quickly as it had begun, having lured even the cantankerous butler from his study. The anthill then shifted to the dining table where Mrs Hughes took stock of each bushel, brace, jar and box, before dispatching a young staff member to deliver it to the larder, cold stores, pantry or even back out to locked cabinets in the courtyard—the coldest place on the property at this time of year. Unless Mrs Patmore called for it specifically, finally able to task Daisy to use it immediately.

Once enough of the table had been cleared away, Carson took his seat at its head, and began sorting the much less grand, but still larger than usual, stack of letters and parcels.

Internal deliveries complete, everyone except the freshly resourced kitchen staff seemed to dawdle in the area, hoping not to wait until luncheon for any last minute Christmas greetings or goodies.

Thomas worried the pile looked rather sparse on parcels; and that the few parcels were themselves rather spartan. Not that he knew what to expect from London.

With a great deal more haught than haste, the butler reviewed each envelope and small package, flipping through the entire stack once, then twice, before even beginning to sort.

Looks amongst the staff surely contradicted the spirit of the holiday. Even docile William seemed ready to leap in and take over the absurdly simple task seemingly drawn out intentionally to punish them all.

Intrigued by the hush that had fallen over the hallway, Mrs Hughes smiled to herself as she approached the loose crowd around the foot of the stairs, clearing her throat just as Mr Carson proclaimed, "The post!"

Caught between their two seniors, the maids and men awkwardly tried to sort themselves into some semblance of a line.

"For heaven's sake," Mrs Hughes exclaimed knowingly, pushing through to stand behind the butler and his stacks. "Everyone's eager, I know; but let's just have Mister Carson call out each person in turn."

As good as system as any, the butler harrumphed in agreement, and named each staff member in turn, handing over one or few small envelopes or packages. Each was accepted and clutched as the recipient said or nodded thanks, and slipped away to quickly enjoy the precious connection to family and the outside world. Until at last, there was only the housekeeper and first footman left, as the butler tidied his stacks and made to stand, only the family's items left to distribute upstairs.

"That's it then, Mister Carson?" Thomas asked, his pained smile barely hanging on.

"As I have called no additional names amongst the staff, it would seem so." Carson nodded at them both, took a handy silver tray from beside the stairs, and headed up for a mid-morning round of the main floor.

Rooted in his disappointment, Thomas just watched him go, only gradually becoming aware that Mrs Hughes remained watching him.

"You were expecting something," she deduced with no small sympathy. _Something that didn't come?_ Best she knew, he'd rarely had any mail from family, or anyone else for that matter. At least until very recently. _Perhaps something from Belgravia?_ given the scuttlebutt Carson refused to acknowledge, much less inquire after.

"Hoping…," he nodded. "Apparently foolishly." He turned back to his polish and pity.

"Thomas!" Daisy's voice rang from the kitchen with her normal bashful excitement. "I've something for ya!"

"No more biscuits, please," he begged, having been barraged with variations on Mrs Crawley's recipe once the young woman learned of his recent, alleged interest in them. "I'll be big as barn…"

"No silly," she appeared with full smile and arms, nodding sheepishly to the housekeeper as well. "This was brought in with the herbs and spices. Someone must have thought it a bouquet, but it's addressed to you. And smells of nothing..."

His mouth dropped open in relief and revived surprise, as she handed over the oddly shaped, but clearly stamped bundle.

"Well," Mrs Hughes chuckled, "Are you going to stand there staring at it all morning, or open it?"

Waking from his exhilaration, he realized she and Daisy were both waiting for him to offer them insight into his new arrival as well.

Sensing his quick nervousness at that prospect, and knowing the moment's rarity for him, the housekeeper suggested with a nod, "While Daisy and I check the root vegetables for more hidden messages, you're welcome to use my sitting room." She nudged him onward, as she turned the disappointed younger woman back into the kitchen.

Laying the package gently on her side table, Thomas closed the door and returned to sit beside it as carefully, relishing that its lack of return address should only mean one special sender. Unrolling it, rather than unwrapping it, he caught and set aside a tight scroll of papers that fell free, as the bulk of the contents shifted and rustled mysteriously. With a few turns more, the course outer wrappings fell away, and a brilliantly white form blossomed from it like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

He had received a handmade, papercraft angel, wings spread and trumpet held high. And it was wearing a top hat and footman's tails.


	46. The Joy of Giving

_Dearest Thomas,_

_I so hope this reaches you in time for Christmas. It took longer to complete than I had expected, as I am still learning this skill. When I saw what someone at the office had made for the tree there, I thought immediately to make this for you. May it bring you joy, and keep you well until we are reunited._

_-Ian_

And scribbled below that, _No surprise, he wanted it to be perfect…_ _A Happy Christmas to you, Thomas. -Myrtle Babcock_

It had been several awestruck minutes before Thomas could turn from the delicate paper sculpture and its clear sentiments, to the tightly rolled supplements to this absolutely last minute arrival. Not that he needed the accompanying note to understand or appreciate the gift, but having more of Ian's own words simply added to the joy.

The quick letter also acted as a cover sheet to a few pages of sketches he now looked through: Several immediately recognizable London landmarks. A cavernous room of desks he assumed to be the publisher's office. A blushing but unfinished landlady—perhaps a draft of another piece gifted to her for Christmas? A regal take on their benefactress, Mrs Crawley. And finally, a perspective sketch—the view from one side of a double-wide bed, looking across to the other, empty side. Where every other paper had the telltale "I" in the lower corner—a claim of artistry Thomas had taught Ian to make, this one instead explained in deliberate, if charmingly incomplete, letters "mis you."

A knock at the door reminded him this was no more his room than the drawings his world. At least yet. Wiping an eye, he coiled the papers, as the housekeeper gently opened and asked, "Thomas, may I…?"

"Of course, Mrs Hughes," he stood, unsure what to do with the unpackable angel, "It's your room."

Careful not to leave open sightlines to the inquiring eyes in the kitchen, the older woman's own gaze was drawn quickly from the bleary-eyed footman to the small glory beside him on her side table. "My, that's beautiful. I can see why you were so eager that it arrive."

"I knew something was coming; but, I had no idea…," he haltingly explained.

"The occasion's clear," she continued, shutting the door and bending to admire it a little closer, "but, might I ask who's the artist or admirer?" She didn't need to say that, beyond the kitchen maid, he was the least likely member of staff expected to receive such attention or elegance.

Thomas actually blushed. "My cousin. He's just taken a job as an artist, and wanted to show off his skills a bit, I think."

"A little Barrow showmanship?" she chuckled, unsurprised. "He's not sent you such wishes before. I think I'd remember if anything so grand had ever before arrived at Downton, intended to stay below stairs."

"We've only just discovered one another, as adults," Thomas fidgeted, both appreciating the compliments on Ian's behalf, and not liking his business on display or under discussion.

"And is this newfound relation part of the draw to London?" she pondered with a friendly, if impish look.

He stiffened at the mention of the job there. "I am flattered that their Ladyships thought to suggest or consider me; but I've been very clear-"

"I wasn't judging, Thomas. Word of the opportunity, _and_ of your polite demurs, have reached certain ears on this level. There is no shame in being wanted, in either house. Or in wanting to be near family, especially if they care enough to make their affections clear."

"Mister Carson seems to agree with only one of your priorities."

"More correctly, in Mister Carson's case, work and family are simply one in the same thing," she countered, with a saddened tone, before turning back to him with a little more hope. "Not everyone is so fortunate as to have one such, much less multiple, good options. Whatever you choose for _you_ , Thomas, I hope all the others possibilities will understand. Even Mister Carson."

She patted his arm on which she'd laid her hand as she spoke. "Now, as there is a kitchen full of curious cooks, and a butler giving no pause for such sentimentality, I suggest you get your angel settled in, and finish that polishing. We've a full house through dinner, all of whom expect everything, and everyone to twinkle for Christmas." Stepping toward the door, and nodding to the kitchen, she smiled kindly, "I'll buy you a moment to get to the stair."

* * *

Trying not to ask too obviously after his unusual package, Daisy nonetheless did bring Thomas a plate of biscuits after the staff's supper that evening. He stuffed one in his mouth almost immediately, so as not to be able to answer questions; and then he passed the plate around the hall to share the holiday generosity.

* * *

_**Wednesday, 25 December 1912** _

The next morning, amidst "Happy Christmas"-es swapped around the breakfast table, he was also the first to receive Daisy's, and by default, Mrs Patmore's gift to their colleagues: a new sweet pastry, seasoned to mimic the singular Crawley cookie. Though tasty, it did elicit some grins around the table as he bit in, and couldn't hide a wearied reaction.

And after Christmas morning church service, and the expanded luncheon service after, he was flattered to receive yet another batch, of the originals this time, directly from their creator. As none of the staff opened their gifts in front of their masters, he thanked Mrs Crawley genuinely when she stepped forward to present it on behalf of the family, and he to receive it graciously. Between that presentation and their still-expected afternoon duties, as the others gawked at their books, or hand-me-down clothes, or other largely impersonal and obligatory trinkets, Thomas simply placed the unopened tin on the servants' hall table, and went for a smoke instead.

As the staff regrouped for one of their most luxurious meals of the year, including some reworked leftovers from the upstairs Christmas luncheon, he kept waiting for Daisy to drop yet another platter of sweets before him—perhaps reworked as rolls or seasoned vegetables. Instead, his undesired offer came from an unsurprising corner.

Once everyone was eating, and conversation turned to what everyone had heard from families, O'Brien took advantage of the briefest of pauses to ask, "And Thomas, you've apparently been the good boy. Who's your mystery, last moment penpal, and what beyond biscuits did they send?"

Eyes around the table turned to him, most having little or no knowledge of the late find in the prior day's deliveries. Surprise was on most faces, worry on the housekeeper's, concern on the butler's, and winter snow innocence on the asker's.

Wiping it from hers quickly, Thomas smiled and engaged with none of the irritation or evasiveness everyone at the table was expecting. Ensuring everyone was watching, he explained cheerfully, "A relation in London sent me a handmade Christmas decoration; but he didn't write to me alone." Reaching into his jacket pocket, he handed her a single piece of paper rolled up and tied with leftover pieces of red and green ribbon.

As was his intent, all eyes and expectations shifted back to her, as she held the scroll like a snake in her hand. She looked to him for some indication of what she was holding; but he simply smiled and forked another mouthful of the delicious dinner. He would give gifts, but no aid.

"Go on, then," an unlikely ally chuckled from across the table, as Anna shot that valet a 'behave' look.

"Mrs O'Brien, it is customary to open and enjoy gifts, not simply stare at them skeptically," joined the chief of staff.

"I shouldn't like to enjoy a gift, when no one else has one here," she smiled nervously.

"We don't mind, truly," Anna assured on everyone's behalf.

Seeing no alternative, the lady's maid nodded, turned the scroll in her hand, ever so slowly untied the ribbons, set them on the table before her, and finally opened the paper very low and near to her.

"Let us have look!" encouraged Gwen, as excitement around the table grew at O'Brien's reluctance, wide eyes and then pallor.

She dropped her hands into her lap, and looked at Thomas with what the others would only describe as a "shaken" expression.

Not daring to grab and pass it around, an apparently disinterested Thomas continued eating, and whispered loud enough for all to hear, "You have to admit, it's a good likeness…"

"Mrs O'Brien, do share," even Mrs Hughes suggested.

"They'll only think up worse if you don't show the truth," the first footman reminded.

Hoping for a swift end at the hands of the most powerful and least tolerant critic at the table, she sighed deeply and handed the paper to Carson.

Shoulders around the table dropped, also expecting him to tear up or torch the mysterious message rather than share it.

Sighing himself under the burden of responsibility, and with furrowed brow and pursed lips, he carefully unfurled the page, and simply stared at it without reaction for what seemed forever.

"Mister Carson?" the housekeeper prompted, now growing concerned at what had been introduced at the table.

Eyebrows now up in… satisfaction, the butler passed the paper to his right, where Mrs Hughes took up the scrutiny.

Another endless pause, until, a smile broke out across her face. "Why, it's lovely, Mrs O'Brien! You needn't be ashamed…," she turned the page around to show everyone, before passing it along. "It's beautiful sketch of our very own lady's maid. What a wonderful gift indeed!"

A buzz went round the table, as the potentially titillating secret was exposed as an equally enthralling pencil portrait of the stern woman at Carson's left hand. The always encouraging head house maid was not the only colleague to add compliments to the art, artist or subject.

If anything, the sincere positivity seemed to make O'Brien even more uncomfortable. "Fine, fine. That's quite enough," she barked, almost snatching it back when Thomas passed it over from William. "I'm not some sideshow or pantomime character. Eat your suppers."

Thomas relished the glare he got from her, along with every attempt by the others to re-engage her about it through that meal and beyond. While she never acknowledged it again, or thanked Ian through him, he couldn't believe she wasn't also actually flattered at the truly respectful and flattering rendering he'd sent to seal her silence on their meeting. In fact, Thomas thought he caught her peeking at least once that night, before she bustled it away, never to be seen again.

* * *

With almost everyone in good spirits after the also extravagant upstairs dinner that Christmas night, Thomas took advantage of seeing off the Dowager Countess and the Crawleys, to thank the younger mother genuinely for the "biscuits, and _everything_." He truly couldn't reciprocate all that she'd done for Ian, and thus for him; but he could slip her a piece of paper from his chest pocket, adding, "Ian sends his gratitude and best wishes well."

Knowing they had little time or privacy just outside the coatroom, Isobel unrolled it quickly and cautiously. Finding an elegant sketch of herself, she smiled and teared up. "Oh! Ian is too kind, of pencil and heart. I shall treasure it always!"

Looking as though she was about to kiss his cheek, she caught his look of alarm at the unacceptable familiarity, and instead clutched his hand. _Not even at Christmas, then..._

"I will pass that along to him," Thomas reassured. _Hopefully in person, and soon._


	47. The Best Begins with Closure

_**Tuesday, 31 December 1912** _

After the anxiety leading into Christmas, Thomas' holiday spirit was maintained by the clockwork arrival each afternoon of a single, small, return-less envelope from London. Addressed in a noticeably improving script, each contained not a letter yet, but rather one or two sketches of something or someone in London, providing him some ongoing insight into Ian's exploration of the new city. A pigeon pecking at a cracker. A low angle look up at some gargantuan building. A spangled guard marching. A boat disappearing under a river bridge. A busy street. And more personally, a partial self-portrait, showing signature curls just beginning to reappear. All word-less welcomes, should a certain country footman come south soon.

Though Thomas never opened the notes around others, at least a few tablemates noticed the new pattern, and whatever of his happy reactions slipped past his quick squashing of them. Whether curious about him or hoping for another awkward O'Brien moment, most did nothing more than observe and trade glances with one another. Reaching past him for her pin cushion as he lingered over the _two_ freshly delivered letters today, Anna mentioned with a smile, "Seems Lady Mary's not the only one to have gotten on some list."

"New year brings new things," he smiled cryptically, happy to confound the interest in his affairs, whatever their motivation. Without further comment, he stood and reported to their leader, who was just returning from delivering the housekeeper her day's arrivals, "Ah, Mister Carson, I've almost got the greens frames organized, and if there's nothing new needed for tonight's merriment, I thought I might finish them off now?"

Quite pleased with the newfound work ethic in his first footman, finally, the butler nodded him on, "Very good. Just mind your livery for dinner."

"Is no one else curious what daily news Thomas is suddenly receiving?" asked an exasperated Gwen once he was well gone, finally looking up from her own sewing.

But before anyone else could speak, the butler harrumphed and pronounced the subject closed. "If you must know what your colleagues receive by post, I suggest you write to them yourself, and thus be sure and satisfied."

* * *

In truth, Thomas had already finished cleaning and putting away the metal skeletons for the Abbey's legion of wreaths and garlands, and the anchoring system for its large Christmas tree. By butler fiat, the perishable Christmas trimmings had been removed as they wilted; by descending size, all were chopped into firewood proper, added to other fires for their pleasant wintry scent, or dried into potpourri for use throughout the year. And, by tradition, the rest of the Yule décor would be whisked away by Twelfth Night, whatever its state.

Instead, the footman made his way to the warmest of the attic rooms, for a rare private moment to savor to Ian's latest dispatches. He had sent a note to London immediately after Christmas, letting Ian know that Mrs O'Brien was awestruck by her drawing, and Mrs Crawley, teary at hers. _I was both myself on opening your knick-of-time delivery as well. And Mrs Hughes, our housekeeper, all but suggested such an artist should not be unattended as his star rises...,_ he'd written truly, if carefully. And, knowing he'd miss his desired midnight kiss tonight, today's delivery would be Ian's last words to him until the new year.

Opening Ian's own dispatch first—a sketch of Westminster Palace and the Big Ben clock tower at dusk, Thomas dared imagining their walking together along the Thames toward that view. Arm in arm, much less hand in hand, was out of the question; and he knew he could never put his arms openly around Ian as they shivered in the river breeze. But, in the chill of the unheated storage atop the Abbey, he dreamed of the opportunity just to be there, beside Ian, in person; and of having a private room to return to at day's end…

Flush despite the attic's cold, Thomas shook off the tempting daydream, opened the second letter addressed in the finer weekly script, and unfolded a surprise three pages. The first sheet made him smile.

_Dear Thomas,_

_We all thank you for the Christmas goose and baking goods. You are too, too generous. The biscuits Ian attempted were also very tasty; what we did not enjoy ourselves, he took to share at work and church._

_I have not met anyone so enraptured by the city or Christmas services, or willing to help despite his infirmity. A truly special young man._

_Our thanks again until we can say so in person in the new year._

_M. Babcock_

_PS: Ian has insisted on copying out a message in his own hand; enclosed. Such persistence!_

The referenced second page, complete with a corrected spelling, both warmed and ached his heart.

_My Dearest Thomas,_

_It is very cold here. But my coat keeps me warm when outside._

_Beyond Mrs Babcock's hospitality, I much enjoy my work, though it will be some time before any of my drawings are published. Until then, I have tried four new teas from the trolley. And also a -_ _txxxl-_ _trifle, which is very good._

_Also, I burnt some of Mrs Crawley's biscuits; so I fed them to the pigeons, who seem not to care. I named one for you; you can meet him when you get here. (Soon?)_

_Happy New Year!_

_Yours,_

_Ian_

He laughed aloud at the third page: a sketch of what he presumed was the referenced, and indeed rather dapper pigeon.

Not quite alone at the top of the house, Thomas realized he was ending the year with several certainties. In a way he had never known before or imagined possible, he loved and was loved in return. For the first time, he had a more than selfish motivation for, and an actual life opportunity to move beyond waiting at others' feet, at least for paltry pay. And so, for both causes, he would indeed be applying for the Painswick footman position, and would make his case to several office jobs he'd worried over. For need and love, he _would_ get to London sooner than later.

* * *

_**Monday, 6 January 2013** _

Daily duties and undecorating aside, Thomas remained busy through New Yew Year's week. He'd volunteered for any extra duties he could, continuing to angle for favor and time off from Carson. O'Brien and Mrs Hughes also noticed; but neither said so, observing with a smirk and smile, respectively. The butler gave no indication of any kind.

Thomas also carefully composed and sent off several letters of interest to London employers, including a particularly stirring pitch to a large law firm who'd advertised for a new position to handle client hospitality. He'd included one of Ian's sketches of him, in hopes appearance was as important to them as to aristocratic households. He'd even considered asking Mrs Crawley for her son's connection in the legal community; but wasn't ready to incur that debt unless it really was needed.

At the strike of the new year, he'd closed his eyes, giving thanks for Ian and the positive end to 1912, and praying for his changed luck to stick into 1913. He'd written back to Mrs Babcock and Ian, enclosing a horribly drawn, but smiling stick figure footman. He'd passed along a request to Ian from Mrs Crawley, hoping for a drawing of her Matthew, to complement her own. "I believe I have a photograph I could lend, if that would help. I know they only met the once...," she'd offered.

Applications and requests sent, he could do little more than look forward to a daily drawing, pine for more direct contact, and dote on the Crawleys and _their_ 1913 priorities.

"While I know it will surprise you, I'm not thinking of myself," Mary tossed across the table as they worked on the last of their Christmas thank you cards. "I simply thought my dear sister might be interested in seeing some of the fashion and festivities. It's only a year now until your season, Sybil; and all our stories can't do it the justice of seeing it for yourself."

"Styles may have changed by then…," their mother pointed out, sensing the three daughters working together to push the travel agenda.

"Well of course they will! But, the protocols won't have," the eldest persisted, with a wink. "And by then, we'll have had another Christmas, and a birthday each, to update our wardrobes appropriately."

"The details you should focus on now, are in your correspondence," Cora nodded to their stationery and incomplete lists. "Being relations, the Marquess and Marchioness of Flintshire may overlook late gratitude and poor handwriting; but the rest of London society certainly will not. Impress now to earn invitations later..."

The dressing gong cut off any further discussion.

"Oh, dear, is that the time already?" the Countess sighed, as everyone moved to obey the call. "Well, as it's just family this evening, we'll finish after dinner. Thomas, please let Carson know of that small change. If we can complete the last few notes tonight, we can put away all this and have one less space to worry about tomorrow before the Ball…"

He nodded at the largely thoughtful gesture, as she followed two daughters out. He and William would be moving the table and chairs either way, but one item off his own list tonight, however small, was now one less task obliging him to the Abbey. He was counting down.

Trailing slightly behind, having made a point to tidy her stacks fastidiously, Edith nodded back toward the table as she passed him at the door. "I wonder if you'd seen today's paper?"

Needing to tidy the room himself before relaying her Ladyship's message and heading to his own supper, Thomas was initially annoyed at the odd question, worried it suggested more work for him.

Attending to their table before the tea service, he started where Lady Edith had been sitting, and the referenced newspaper sat folded. Picking it up irritably, Thomas realized immediately which headline she'd intended him to note. Nearly dropping into the vacant seat, he devoured the article, relishing the scant details of how "Tragically, the Baron Greenhalgh and his driver both were killed, when their car ran off the road into the Rochdale canal…"

Lady Edith might not appreciate the full impact of that watery justice; but he could relish it enough for every oblivious person in the county. _Happy new year, indeed!_


	48. Liberation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Guy Fawkes Night, 2016... TBC!

_**Tuesday, 7 January 2013** _

Buoyed by such a just start to the new year, Thomas' spirits remained high into the next evening, when the noble family skipped their formal dinner, and ceded the evening instead to a celebration for and with, if still almost entirely _by_ , their servants. Scrubbed clean for the rare hours when they could be above stairs at all, or at least openly, the full staff of the estate—inside and outside—stood in awkward, if spiffy and gawking, lines in the great house's great room as their Earl extoled them.

"Finally, our cousin, Mister Matthew Crawley, sends his sincere regrets that he cannot be with us this evening. But he does share his thanks and best, and hopes to continue meeting members of our treasured Downtown family over the many, happy days to come.

"And so, on behalf of myself, her Ladyship and the entire Crawley family," he led everyone gathered in raising their glass, "we thank you all, and wish you the very best for new year. Enjoy this Servant's Ball. To Downton, all!"

Eager to move to the rare food and drinks offered by, and not just delivered to, that big house, the crowd smiled, shouted back, chugged and moved as quickly as was polite to the waiting tables of sips and bites.

The older staff members had the courtesy to pay their respects to the family members before focusing on the free fare. The outdoors staff made slow circles of the atrium, taking in a scale they only saw in churches, barns or garages; this was their annual reminder that horses, automobiles, the Lord, and the Crawleys all had larger homes than they. With a less philosophical focus, Daisy and the younger maids giggled and took note of the ruddy, younger stable and groundskeepers, or avoided the stares of the ruddy, older ones. And the house staff silently hoped that everyone would eat all and spill nothing; for all its rare rule- and role-breaking, this party was nonetheless theirs to clean up at night's end.

Thomas had noticed, and then contentedly ignored a strapping new assistant gameskeeper; that dance card was now entirely full, and he was determined not to be long for Downton anyway. He nodded to the vigilant butler, who apparently approved of his selection of the Dowager Countess, and not a Crawley daughter or impressionable maid, for his first dance of the evening. Were Carson's cheeks a little rosy already?

Taking two glasses from the punch table, he stepped up beside the absolutely unruddy O'Brien. "Such a long face on the one night we get to mingle with them all."

Accepting the offered drink, she corrected, "When we _have_ to mingle with them, you mean." Clearly she meant more than the family.

"Could be worse. I hear one estate has a masquerade in an underground ballroom. The drinking and debauchery reach such heights, you don't know who you're dancing or… more with. And it takes the staff _days_ to clean up after it, if they're not ill or sacked from the night's behaviour."(1)

She smirked and took a swing of the admittedly nice alcohol. "I'll just be grateful we've already had our excitement for the fall, and that there's not a soul here I'd get ill for or with. Or in London, thank you very much," she cut off his attempt to remind her of a certain admirer. "If you really are heading that way, you keep him put there."

 _So she'd heard too? Of course she had._ "You think I should try for the Painswick's?"

"You're a fool if you haven't already. You'd be in the city. You know the mistress well enough; and she's here or traveling as often as not. Only the butler's a mystery; and you can get a sense of him fast enough."

That was positively permission from O'Brien. "Would you miss me?" he sipped and smiled.

She threw him a side glance instead. "You're not the first upstart footman I've trained; and likely not the last. Besides, I'd expect to be kept up to date on the comings and goings there."

"You and Lady Mary both…"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that comparison," O'Brien scoffed and headed for another drink, as there was a lull at that table. "Meanwhile, Daisy's making eyes at you again. I know you'll miss those biscuits."

Ignoring the cook's goods, Thomas instead smiled at a few other guests across the room, cleared a few empty plates from a table when he saw the butler was watching, and quickly grabbed two full punch cups once the lady's maid had skulked away. "Fleet-footed as ever, Mister Carson," he greeted his superior with said drinks, as the older man's dance with Lady Mary ended.

"Thank you, Thomas," Carson nodded for both the cup and compliment. "It seems you're making a tradition of the first dance with Dowager Countess."

"I respect my elders most. And, she simply insists that don't let her fall, as though she's not an elegant stepper in her own right." While officially "off" this one evening, it still never hurt to flatter upwards.

"Graceful indeed," Carson concurred, with a sip of punch, before quickly pivoting to what he knew was also motivating his footman's golden tongue. "And so, would you not miss all this if you were to take a position in London?"

"Ah…," Thomas stuttered, intending to bring up London, but not to that end.

"I don't know whether you've applied," Carson explained, "though your recent eagerness for extra tasks and early hours suggest you are polishing as much reference as silver…"

 _Alright, we'll go there…._ "Actually, sir, it was you who'd reminded me of the high expectations on us all during this busy time. If I was working toward anything, it was to show you how seriously I do take that responsibility …and, honestly, in hopes that you would look favorably on my request to spend a few days with my family." Truth drizzled in flattery was the new holiday treat.

That earned a sip and a side glance from the butler, who had never presumed anything other than career advancement as the footman's sudden motivation. While the young man had inquired, the older man hadn't considered he might actually have, and value, relations over service. Connecting other goings on below stairs, and aiming to remind that he knew all such things, Carson dared acknowledge the common curiosity, "And would this also explain your flurry of correspondence of late?"

Thomas half-feigned a sigh at being so fully understood. "Unable to be with them in person, I endeavoured to share the holiday with my family best I could. They send their best to you, the staff, and our generous patrons."

While impressed at the man's commitment to this to-date hypothetical family, Carson could hardly let on any concern for them at the expense of their actual, shared and properly pedigreed one. The Barrows' relevance to him had ended on producing and rearing the young son he was now molding into a meaningful contributor to society… He punctuated that stroke of good fortune—for Thomas—with another sip of punch.

And, relishing the spiced warmth of the holiday mix, he did have to admit that his pupil had shown considerable growth in his short years at Downton. And a notable increase in initiative and effort in the past few weeks alone; since recovering from his post-Guy Fawkes sick bed, in fact. He took some pride at that, as he continued to sip and survey the gentle flow of music, chatter, refreshments—in sum, an orderly, and therefore happy, post-holiday home. Just as it should, and would, be—so long as Charles Carson served and supervised.

Flush with purpose, pride and punch, Carson turned and handed Thomas his first beneficence of the night. "On the condition that you keep me fully informed about your intentions with Belgrave Place, _and_ you maintain your recent energetic efforts of late whatever the outcome there, you may have leave as soon as we can spare you next Monday. And because I'm feeling particularly generous this evening, you needn't return until Thursday afternoon, so that we have you back in plenty of time to prepare for Mister Crawley's return."

Thomas was suddenly flush himself, having hoped for more time, of course, but not actually expecting three full nights away!

Unconcerned, Carson gifted him a second time, finishing his cup and handing it empty to the still unbelieving footman. "Never let it be said that Charles Carson is ungenerous or ungracious." Without another look, he set off on another extension of his caring confidence. "Mrs Hughes, might I have the honour…?"

* * *

_**Monday, 13 January 1913** _

Leaving later than he'd intended because the housework, of course, never ended, Thomas made it just in time to catch his third choice train. But, with almost another week's extra effort, some clarity of intentions by the barrister heir, and the grimacing late departure, he'd managed to have his return time extended until Friday morning.

Gathering his breath as he settled in, he could barely sit still on the ride to York, much less on the connection to London. Finally free of service concerns for perhaps the longest period of time in his brief career, if not entire life, he catalogued his few, if vital tasks behind and ahead.

First, he'd spent the night after cleaning up the Servants' Ball writing to the London law firm, indicating his imminent visit to the capital, should an in-person meeting be of interest. And they had accepted, with what he felt was significant gusto for attorneys.

Second, he'd similarly arranged an interview with Lady Painswick's butler, letting Carson know he felt he must, out of courtesy to everyone after Lady Mary's public suggestion. Her involvement had softened Carson's post-party irritation, understanding it would be "awkward" not to at least go through the motions…

And last but not least, he'd exchanged two rounds of letters with Ian and their landlady, letting them know of his scheduled afternoon arrival. He'd share tea with Mrs Babcock, settle into their room, and await Ian's return from the office—likely as quickly as the young man could possibly get away.

In preparation for all these appointments, he'd laundered and packed his best suits—packing all three he owned—so as to be prepared, and immaculate, for everyone he needed to impress this trip. This morning, he was up early, to scrub himself especially well, and not just for the breakfast service and luncheon prep that originally stood between him and his emancipation.

Then, the butler had refused to release him until after luncheon when her Ladyship had surprised them all with a last minute invitation to Isobel Crawley. Apparently, the daughters' insistence on London season considerations had finally convinced her that the new nobles should be prepared for their likely part.

And so, he'd ground his teeth through their seemingly endless chatter about inane subjects, basically taunting him with talk of a London fantasy they were keeping him from. Finally freed, but with Mrs Crawley not knowing to wait with the automobile, and with the wagon off on a supply run, he'd had to sprint to the village, cursing them all.

With no time to spare in Downton, he'd just managed to send a telegram from York; the same apology and updated arrival information to both Babcock and Ian, hoping someone at the office would read Ian's to him. He hoped both had received the messages, and so would not worry or rush unnecessarily on his account.

Settled in for the longer leg to London, he could now do little but imagine what the next few days had in store. Of particular urgency and importance, and bringing a smile to his lips for the first time since when the morning had still been on schedule, were the words he practiced to accompany the silver band still in his pocket. If this day would not stick to plan, he was adamant this part of the reunion would contain the polished crux of his intentions from this day forward:

_"I'm in love with a professional artist, who looks at and loves me in deeper ways than I could have dreamed for anyone, much less someone like me. You claim I saved you Guy Fawkes Night, stepping out of the light when you needed me most. But in truth, it was you who wandered into my life that night, you who were the miracle I hadn't even realized I needed, much less could deserve._

_"Ian, you have taught me of love, reminded me of strength and given me hope for something better in this world. Not just a better station, but a richer life. And I thank you for that. There's so much more I want to say, so much more for us to be. And so, my precious Wink,…"_

_A bended knee._

_An earnest question._

_A resolute answer._

_A happy forever, or near enough as two poor blokes could have together._

Rehearsing the joyous moment to himself the entire trip, Thomas' mood had improved greatly by the time they arrived slightly early to an icy King's Cross. Pushing his way firmly through the crowds, he kept an eye out for Ian, in case a shared urgency had pulled the handsome boy here directly. Thomas both hoped for that good sign, and perhaps slightly more against it. He'd been scripting this perfect evening for more than a week; and part of him wanted to stick to the in-room, out of view rendezvous as planned.

Not seeing any familiar faces on the platform, or in the station proper, he paused atop the busy street stairs to take in the moment of this new chapter of shared possibilities. The continued cold and gathering dusk had quieted the big city, anticipating the coming reunion, if not openly able to celebrate it. _This will be home, our home_ , Thomas committed as he pulled up his collar at the brisk city breeze, and turned toward the most direct route to the boarding house. Looking across the busy Euston Road as the traffic paused, he was instantly warmed to catch sight of Ian's familiar face hurrying to cross and greet him, as unable to wait as he was.

Much, much later, Thomas would take some small comfort that they had clearly seen one another, both were smiling, and neither saw the car which jumped suddenly from the otherwise still queue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Search for information on the extravagances at Welbeck Abbey, Notts.


	49. Perpetuity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am taking advantage of a real world Guy Fawkes muse-rush to polish off some heavily outlined chapters; hopefully can keep up the pace. Thanks for kudos, subscriptions and comments. All build momentum!

_**Thursday, 16 January 2013** _

Thomas' carriages on the return trains to Downton were largely empty, as even the other third class passengers sensed better than to join the young man with bloodshot eyes and uncombed hair who slouched against the window. Whether or not they sat long enough to see that he was actually weeping openly, his overall appearance and demeanor were more than sufficient to have most begin to board, and then select any other car.

As they'd done, sleepless, for nearly four days, Thomas' solitary heart and mind jumped amongst the stream of bleak moments this London sojourn had become, each more horrendous and hopeless than the others…

He bawled each time he returned to the eternity spent clutching and crying over Ian in the street, as water, cold, mud, hushed whispers and harsh reality seeped in. The police constable had quickly given up on prying Ian from him, not needing much inspection or the later arriving ambulance team to confirm there was nothing to be done for one member of the soaked pair, and that the other was not ready for outside interference of any kind.

Thomas seethed now that he had not become angry then, until it was too late. The irritated and well-dressed man had grudgingly left the comfort of his stately automobile to bicker with the constables at being held up from his important business by "paupers running into the streets…" Demanding the bobby's name when asked his own, and declaring the matter closed, the man had tossed a ten pound note onto the ground beside Thomas "for your loss" as he ordered his anxious driver "on to the Palace!"(1)

Thomas ached again at having finally been coaxed into the white lorry, and finally parted from Ian at the hospital so that they could confirm the day's ugly end. He remembered little of what they asked or told him, as he hunched in the closest corridor. Everyone avoided him there too, until a detective or doctor, he hadn't bother to note which, had asked whether he would be claiming the body, and by what right—simply for the records.

" _I'm his only family… Cousin…,"_ he'd finally been able to whisper.

" _Mm-hmm. And his given name?"_

" _Ian."_

" _Mm-hmm. And his surname? Sir, what's his family name?"_

" _He's a Barrow. He's Ian Barrow."_

He flinched on recalling how Mrs Babcock had reacted when opening the door to the policeman who insisted on dropping him at his London address, rather than any number of pubs they'd passed on the way. He could still hear her sniffling when she'd left the tray and kettle outside his upstairs, mockingly double room. She still was when she fetched it, untouched, in the morning.

He'd clenched his eyes and nearly ripped through his pockets as he stood there over the bed intended for him, turned down, his name wobbly scribed on a pillow card, and a bouquet of paper roses just off-center its way on the table between the beds. Having the good sense to take off his soiled clothes, he had crawled into the other bed, and tried to smother himself in the scent before it could fade. And he stopped breathing entirely as he relished Ian's smell in the sheets they should have shared.

Under the pillow, he discovered a wadded undershirt he'd lent to Ian, who'd apparently comforted himself with a similar fabric substitute. Confirmed that Ian still hated to sleep alone, Thomas had burst into a fresh rounds of sobs, realizing his lovely boy was again alone, bloody, cold and filthy in a strange place this wretched night. A new guilt overtaking his grief, he'd rushed to clean himself up, gather a few fresh things, and be waiting in the dark when the mortuary opened hours later.

Not entirely surprised to find him already gone, Mrs Babcock joined him soon enough, assuring him another boarder would be stopping by the publishing house, so they wouldn't worry. She continued to sniffle, and insisted on holding his hand throughout the seven miles travel out to the simple graveside service at St Pancras and Islington Cemetery, the closest, best and most timely option he could find in the busy, costly capital.(2) Despite her well-meaning intrusion, her presence probably kept him from falling apart every few feet of the trip, or throwing himself into the open grave once there.

When she finally trusted or tired enough to give him a moment alone, he pulled Ian's original self-portrait from his chest pocket, stifled a moan and smeared a little of the displaced dirt in one corner. Before they'd sealed the simple coffin back in the city, he'd asked for a moment alone there too. He had gently pulled back the shroud, needing one last look at his sleeping love, and one last confirmation that this was horrible, but no dream or prank. No jam this time; nor breath or hope. He'd tucked a muddied sketch of himself back into Ian's chest pocket, and slipped the intended ring onto Ian's finger. He'd spoken his vows, pulled up the simple sheet and kissed his angel good night a final time.

Now standing over the eternal bed—one of two plots hurriedly purchased, and swearing against what little was left holy in his life, he completed the oath. "You have to go, love; that's true. But I _promise_ , I will follow quick as I can…"

* * *

Ignoring his own appointments entirely, Thomas had collected Ian's few items at the office, thanked them for the flowers sent to the boarding house, and donated all but the sketches and a single handkerchief to a children's charity for use or resale. He'd thanked Mrs Babcock for her care of both Barrows, leaving her at her door to seek his extended comfort in every glass, bottle and cask the large city had to offer. He drank silently until the barkeep put him out; and then sobered enough in a futile search for his pigeon self, to start again at a new pub.

Having thus found only more emptiness across the crowded city, he'd finally sobered enough not to be thrown off the northbound trains, and so shifted his mobile anguish to steam-powered hours spent leaving his hopes behind and returning to all the superficial nothingness he had left in Downton. From the small station, Thomas pushed on past yet another bridge that Ian would have marveled over, and that he now wished to leap off. Skipping the draw of both village pubs where Ian had visited, he persisted to knock instead at the front door of Crawley House.

Ignoring the cold drizzle and Molesley's cold shock, he dug in his case on the doorstep, explaining, "I have something for your mistress…"

"Oh…," the small butler stammered, aghast that the servant would come to the main entrance at all, much less in such a frightful state. "Sure you wouldn't rather come 'round…?"

"A moment! I just have to find it here…"

"Is that Thomas?" a less bothered voice called from down the hall. "Do invite him in!"

"Well…!" the butler hesitated, caught between their conflicting intentions and larger etiquette expectations themselves.

"Here!" Thomas grunted with no satisfaction, and stood to find a curious Mrs Crawley approaching, to both men's dismay.

"Thomas? Oh dear, what's happened?" her signature cheer evaporated on seeing the disheveled shell of a footman dripping on her doorstep. "Do come in! Molesley, have Mrs Byrd put on tea, and get some towels."

"I will not be staying," Thomas interjected, with no usual appreciation for the offer. "As Mister Molesley's thinly veiled apoplexy should suggest, we've already violated several major standards by meeting at this entrance. And, I've only stopped to deliver something. Ian finished your request before-" He thrust a roll of wax paper directly to her, as his voice failed him.

Waving away the obviously uncomfortable butler, Isobel implored, "Thomas, whatever is it? Has something happened? To Ian?"

 _Weren't so concerned for others on Monday, were you?_ Thomas nearly said aloud, casting his glare at the ground instead. As the self-appointed saviour to all reached out toward him, surely intending to console, he snatched up his bag and stepped back, into the rain and out of reach. Gritting his teeth in chill and anger, he nonetheless was honest as he could be. "He thought very highly of you, mam; he said so on many occasions." _And despite what's happened,_ "I know he'd want me to thank you again. And so I do… I have to get back." He nodded curtly, turned on his heels and nearly jogged away into the dusk.

Startled enough at the terse departure, Isobel clutched the scroll as she slowly closed the door. Stepping up to a sconce in the hall, she unfurled the gift to find three heavy parchment sheets, each signed with a grateful, stylized "I." First, a nod to her integral role in getting him there: a crisp charcoal of his publisher's grand headquarters. Second, the commissioned pencil drawing of Matthew, capturing both a business serious look and also charming twinkle in his eyes. And, entirely unexpected, a concocted sitting of mother and son together, with the additional inscription of "family."

"Mam?" Molesley asked hesitantly, on finding _her_ now crying in the hall.

"Tea and more light in the parlour, please," she bustled past him. "And delay the postman's leaving by whatever means you can."

* * *

Thomas was already long soaked through by the time he finally walked around the Abbey to the delivery yard. He only grew more so when he found himself unable to move past the spot where he was introduced to Ian just ten weeks earlier, on another cold and wet night. Unable to step in front of any vehicles, or off any high places over the past few days, or to drink enough or eat too little, or anything else to swiftly follow Ian as promised, he was now equally incompetent before this holy site, where his angel first appeared to him.

Perhaps he too could just settle behind some crates here, and wait for his desired reunion. Or, as doubts had begun to creep in, would he just linger on there, his purgatory debt still unpaid, or perhaps even larger now? Whatever his Judgement, he knew there would be no salvation, no success for him in this world; he didn't want it. Not any more.

"Deciding whether to report for duty, or run free?" a familiar and also jaded voice asked. "I struggle with that meself on that very spot after each half-day away." Emerging from the service door, his nearest thing in the world to a friend gave him a critical once over before offering him a smoke. "If it helps, I won't say I saw you…"

Unable to make any other decision in that moment, he plodded over to her and accepted some burning relief.

If she noticed his unusual silence or unkempt state, or attributed either to more than poor weather, she didn't mention it. In fact, she offered without prompt, "You haven't missed much here. That young groundsman who was making eyes at the maids during the Ball, he came knocking for Gwen Tuesday evening. I daresay Mister Carson has already put a word in with Mister Jarvis by now…"

"Worked like beasts; treated like rubbish; that's our lot," he summarized, half-listening and not at all surprised.

"So nothing's changed at all then. Happy New Year!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Earl of Grantham will offer the same amount, seven years later, for the safe return of his _dog_. (Series 2, 2011 Christmas special)
> 
> 2\. Established in 1854 to relieve crowding in more central London cemeteries, it is now the largest cemetery in the UK, by number of interments (approximately one million).


	50. Proper Places

_**Tuesday, 21 January 1913** _

The wine merchant had surely only just stepped out the servants' entrance, when there was a knock at Carson's office door. Apparently, someone else had been as eager to approach the butler as the businessman who'd pitched his "first of the new year" samples.

But instead, "Mister Carson, do you have a moment?" a soothing Scottish accent queried.

"Of course, Mrs Hughes," he softened as the housekeeper peeked in. He waved in offer of a chair as he shifted the tray of tasting glasses to one side of his desk.

"Any grand finds?" she nodded to his burden, taking the seat.

The butler harrumphed as he sat, "His Lordship may rest assured that I _already_ provide him and his guests with the very best in vintners and vintages…"

She smiled at his understandable pride, even if curious at another's response. "The salesman didn't seem too unhappy as he left…"

Almost sheepishly, the estate sommelier admitted quietly, "He may have left _without_ my dissuading him from returning with the 'latest and greatest in liqueurs from across the Empire.'"

Her knowing smile hung for a moment, not entirely surprised at his alleged generosity, while knowing the poor man's second visit would most likely also be in vain.

"How may I help _you_?" Carson moved them along, confirming no such futile future.

Mrs Hughes nodded, and wrung her hands slightly, "Ah yes. Well, you see, I've just come from a word with her Ladyship, who was very complementary about the staff's handling of Mrs Crawley's unexpected arrival for luncheon."

Carson nodded confidently, himself unsurprised.

"Only, it seems that she came as she did bearing some unfortunate news, which she shared with her Ladyship afterwards."

"Oh?" Now the Earl's second in command was concerned.

She smoothed her skirt unnecessarily, as she asked, "I wonder whether you've noticed a… change… in Thomas, since he returned from his time in London?" She looked at him as though she already knew the answer, and was not so much asking.

Carson considered for a moment, lips pursed in recollection. "I suppose he has been less attentive and enthusiastic with his responsibilities—especially compared to his admirable verve around Christmas…"

She nodded, without yet elaborating.

His eye shot open, betrayed on several levels. "I've had no inquiry from Belgrave Square. Surely he hasn't been offered a position there without any reference from Downton at all?!"

Mrs Hughes sighed, shaking her head that this was not the case or cause.

"If he was not considered, surely remaining at Downton is no reason for melancholy," Carson continued to gape. "And he told me he had only applied as an understandable courtesy once Lady Mary had suggested he do so…"

"I have no knowledge of his status with the Painswick household or plans beyond. And that is not why Mrs Crawley visited so urgently."

Carson clearly could think of no other reasons explaining, much less excusing, the sudden return of the footman's poor performance.

"Bless," the housekeeper muttered, not meaning the subject of their discussion. "Mrs Crawley shared that she had happened to meet and to assist Thomas' younger cousin with a health issue, and then with securing work in London."

 _More of that woman interfering with and corrupting my staff_ , his eyes clearly said. "If Thomas has been dishonest with me about his travels…," he more safely began aloud…

But Mrs Hughes wouldn't hear it, snapping, "The boy was struck by a car and killed! Just as Thomas was arriving, late, to visit the family," she calmed quickly, having interrupted the objection with an obituary. "Mrs Crawley learned from the employer, whom she knows; and wanted to make sure Downton knew, for whatever understanding we could extend him. And she'd like to express her condolences to him directly, if that could be arranged."

"Well, I-"

She stood to see herself out, disappointed and finished on several levels. "Of _course_ he's been off these last days… Despite watching it happen before his very eyes, your poor footman's not made a single complaint or excuse, after reporting back to you punctually, despite it all."

Carson's mood and tone had changed at the dire news and dressing down. "I am sorry to hear it, obviously," he acknowledged. "I will speak with Thomas. And I believe we were already expecting Mrs Crawley for dinner Friday evening?"

Mrs Hughes nodded at the door, suggesting, "Indeed. And he'll recover more quickly with _some_ kindness."

* * *

"We're all only interested in your future-"

"With all due respect, Mister Carson, and appreciating the good intentions," Thomas could contain himself no longer. He clenched his hands and forced as much composure into his voice as he could, "my plans and dreams are no one's business but my own. Not yours, not her Ladyship's, and certainly not Mrs Crawley's." _Besides, I buried all my dreams in a box north of London. All because every one of you 'interested' people couldn't spare me for a single, sudden, selfish luncheon._ "As there's nothing more to be done, I'd prefer not to dwell on it, just to focus on my work. I know, sir, how much you can appreciate that desire; and so I do hope you'll pass it along to everyone, upstairs and down."

Slightly taken aback by the impassioned, if cool, back talk, Carson couldn't disagree with his thinking. In fact, he admired the singular determination to return to duty, as one should in such situations. To that very end, he said simply, "Very good, Thomas. That will be all."

Thomas stepped out into the hallway, to pause and compose himself. Needing a smoke, but still hesitant to step into the courtyard where it all began, his mind raced with reactions to these continued kicks while he was so, so down. _Whatever her charitable attention to Ian, how DARE she share my personal details with the family! How DARE they all expect my gratitude for the very condolences they'd made necessary in the first place! How dare they pity me_ now _, as if this was the first, only or unrelated harm imposed on me. How dare they plod on with their stodgy selves, when Ian-_

He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes, lest he break down completely there in the main corridor. His thoughts drifted to the bottle of borrowed wine that awaited him on the ledge outside his window; and to how the household owed him many more based on the too little, too late and self-serving farce of their feelings. Taking the odd bottle was easy enough for him; and there were others who could be blamed should the self-important domestic general even notice.

And speaking of Carson, Thomas noticed the overseer's coat as he headed for his nicotine hit. _Trusting git_ , he left his wallet in the pocket as always; and wouldn't miss the few notes Thomas liberated as he passed. And, if he could do it once so easily, perhaps he'd exact such reparations on an open-ended schedule…

* * *

_**Friday, 24 January 1913** _

"Broke his neck, poor chap," the Earl shared with Matthew a few nights later, between pulls on his cigar. "At least he didn't suffer…"

In the service corridor just beyond the door, Thomas gripped the counter to the point it creaked under the strain. Luckily, that was all he did to express his fury that these men should so casually and callously chat about and diminish Ian's death and life. _He suffered! What do you know of his life? What do either of you know of suffering for that matter?_  he wanted to burst into their after dinner dalliance, shouting. _So nice of you to pass judgment between imported sips and puffs, after your elegant food was delivered to your upholstered seat by stiffly dressed men with downcast eyes, who were up before and would be awake long after these gentile consumers. 'Gentlemen,' indeed?_

"Are his Lordship and Mr Crawley still at digestifs?" Carson shattered his seethe on returning to continue closing down dinner.

"Yes, Mister Carson," he reported more coolly than he was feeling. _As always, only their drinks have depth._

* * *

"Thomas," Isobel took his arm firmly as he held the car door for her at the night's end, seeking his eyes for the same direct connection. "I wanted to say-"

Refusing to meet her gaze, he ground his teeth and reminded simply, "I remain thankful for everything you did…"

"Please let me finish," she asked.

"Mrs Crawley," he firmly but politely cut off her with a corresponding stare. He wanted to scream at her, to lecture, to make her understand how little servants had that was theirs alone: just faraway family, if any, and forbidden feelings. How everything else in their lives—time, effort, belongings, plans—all belonged to their masters. But how Ian had been his alone, his rescue, his retreat. Their affection had been a rare thing beyond the Granthams' god-like control, if not knowledge. The greedy world had taken Ian from him—sin enough. But then she stuck her nose further into his business, and proceeded to hand over his private grief to Carson and the Crawleys, so that _they_ could define whether, when and how he should feel. How her meddling had taken even his loss from him, had imposed his employers' pitying glances and polite comments into his personal loneliness. How she had betrayed him at his lowest moment, all so she could feel good for her magnanimity; and he wouldn't –he couldn't stomach that typical self-serving intrusion.

But for what good she had done, and because it was the hard truth, he said simply, "There are _lines_."

She blinked at the calm rebuke. She knew she probably did not understand all the nuances or depths; but she understood that she had overstepped, again and in some significant way. He was reminding her that, with the Guy Fawkes' Night mystery solved, and their young project gone, they had nothing left to connect them except their roles.

Swallowing the urge to argue in defense of her intentions, or to assert her condolences, she nodded and let him see her into the car. Such was her position.


	51. Torn

As he had each night since returning from London, Thomas sat on the cold floor of his room, torn. Alone save the half-empty bottle of wine he cradled, neither the bare chair nor the empty bed promised any needed comfort, only painful memories.

For prone or sitting, asleep or even awake, the dream never left him, and never changed: In the cold, complete darkness, he could see a sliver of light in the distance. Running desperately toward it, he would draw just near enough to see Ian clearly in the doorway, smiling and waving him on. His heart was pumping, full and hopeful; his love had come back to him again!

But each time without fail, as he grew close, something or someone would appear directly in his path—usually a family or staff member asking or demanding something frivolous. Occasionally, the withered Baron Greenhalgh, or drunken Bowers, or even mousy Tutwiler would beat him to the door, enter ahead of him and barricade themselves in. But whatever interfered, and no matter how hard he tried, the door gradually, surely and firmly closed before he could reach it; and Ian was lost to him again.

Sometimes, he was simply left in the darkness, lost and alone. Others, he found the door and beat himself uselessly against it, taunted by the knowledge of how close he'd come. And more rarely, usually after a stirring Sunday sermon, the solitary darkness erupted into fire—such that even the opposite of excruciating dim and chill offered him torment. Every outcome was its own agony; like his real solitude, the dreamed pain was always and absolute.

Even awake, he found little relief. When Ian had simply been away in London, he'd seen glimpses of the familiar figure in corners and shadows of the house; but no such comforts deigned to appear now. Daisy finally accepted that the time of Crawley biscuits had passed; but other foods remained linked to whether and how they had been snuck upstairs, or out to the cottage that he never visited again. And every temptation toward the courtyard became a battle between his tobacco requirement and his more unquenchable need for a visitor he wouldn't find there.

Curled tight, tipsy and drowsy, in his midnight room once more, Thomas was keenly aware that no time, no place, and no state of consciousness or distraction had or would bring him any peace. Ian, and all he'd meant for Thomas, was gone.

Obviously he'd known hardship and had dreams before Ian; but after that Guy Fawkes Night, the challenges had seemed weaker, and the possibilities had been greater, brighter and better. And so their loss was all the harder. Ian's chorus that he deserved to be happy competed cruelly with the fact that his greatest source of happiness had been taken from him as abruptly as it had arrived. His life was as empty as his bed and bottle.

And hadn't he promised, repeatedly, to follow Ian quickly? He'd gotten as far as placing the burial plot deed atop his dresser, easily found and followed through should he find the will to finish himself. He doubted they'd miss him here, but hoped they'd honour the contract, if not the wish it suggested. His father wouldn't have him in his birth family's tract; and he'd rather sleep beside Ian anyway. How he wished to be with Ian again…

Staring at the unused bed where they'd first laid together, he recalled confessing how he'd recognized strength in the stormy survivor, and hoped it might be a trait he shared. But, true to the more honest nature he feared, Thomas remained too cowardly to try ending his struggle and joining his love on that hillside outside London.

Too sad to go on, and too weak to stop, Thomas fully expected to spend the rest of this night, if not his entire life torn between acting on his bottomless bitterness, and being good enough to somehow earn an eternal rest with Ian.

* * *

Having burned his professional bridges in London two months earlier, Thomas' persisting agony led him to recklessly proposition a visiting diplomat from the Ottoman Empire. Knowing nearly nothing of the foreign man, land or culture, his only thought had been escape—for the night, or perhaps longer. So desperate to escape at least this place, if not this life, he'd been fortunate Mister Pemuk did nothing more in response than demand his help in accessing Lady Mary's bedroom. Unwanted, and now at risk, Thomas obeyed, only to be lucky again that the foreigner had quickly taken Thomas' advance and involvement to his grave.

Not so fully escaping implication in the disappearing wine and cash below stairs, and still no happier eighteen months later, Thomas volunteered for medical service as the new war began. He wasn't keen on fighting or dying to be sure; but he hoped opting into the support role early would keep him from being drafted into the front lines later. And, beyond the appearance of quick and voluntary valour, he'd surely gain some new, useful skills beyond his already fluent metal polishing and marching on command.

After two years of witnessing and cleaning up after the horrors on the continent, the cost of his relocation and education had become far too high. Giving thanks daily that Ian had not lived to be involved, shoulder or not, Thomas found no succor in being trapped in close quarters with only other young men. What might have been a quick fantasy at first, had become an endless nightmare of blood, mud, guts and screams. There were days—or nights—he could not tell waking from sleeping; the lonely torment was constant, tangible, and unwanted.

A chance trenches tea with the Downton heir reminded him that there were alternatives to this unwanted, literal dead-end path. Recalling Ian's belief that fires could guide one home, he kissed the worn sketch ever in his pocket, and raised his lighter late one night—as much as he could bring himself to do in order to follow. And five months later he had made his way back to Downton, with a new uniform, new glove and new role to show for his adventures.

Negotiating that complementary position with the Granthams and Mister Carson was challenging, but freeing in ways Thomas had never known. While not out-ranking the butler or the family, he wasn't beholden to them as he had been before the war. He saw Lady Sybil in particular had blossomed into her own woman, and more a supporter. Awkward cooperation with Mrs Crawley was ultimately avoided when Lady Grantham reasserted control of the house as convalescent home. And his uptick in outlook dared rise even higher, when he met and encouraged a young, recovering officer who seemed to appreciate and want his company…

But, he was a Barrow after all, and thus not destined for happiness. Edward took his own life rather than be parted from him; touching, but alone-making still. With yet another reason to escape Downton, the unofficial market for surplus war material offered a way to leverage the last of Greenhalgh's blood money into a better life. But his dream was more detailed than his inspection of the goods; and this design at independence and opportunity was torn down around him.

The Spanish influenza opened a chance for him to prove his utility to Downton again; but their desperate need, not genuine want, of him was exposed within a year, when they passed him over, again, promoting the lower-ranking Alfred as Matthew Crawley's valet. That the quick-climbing footman was O'Brien's nephew also cost Thomas his only understairs confederate. Grief and grievances mounting, Thomas drank, and seethed, and often wondered whether he shouldn't have just stood up in that French trench. One more regret for his growing collection.

In May 1920, another light and wavy-headed boy had arrived at Downton, and rekindled a passion he'd thought eight years buried. Daring to hope, and honestly more than a little desperate, Thomas sought a much needed ally in Jimmy, if not a student, if not precious more, especially with the sudden death of Lady Sybil. But, torn between better sense and base desires, his need blinded him to O'Brien's obvious setup; and true to himself and untrue to Ian's memory, an attempt at rare human contact left him outed, outcast and a potential criminal. Mercifully, the Earl and Jimmy were better people than the entire O'Brien clan combined; and Thomas, his position and his freedom survived, leaving him still present but shunned in most ways beside continued employment.

It wasn't until the following late summer that Thomas was literally torn up over his complex history. He and Willy recognized one another immediately on the county fair pitch. However, unlike the wretch who'd set upon Ian nearly nine years before, Thomas didn't have a gang of ready mates to rally against an old adversary; no other soul in the world knew anything about the cad's sins or his own heroics. He took some satisfaction that the Downton staff beat the brigands at tug-of-war, but realised instantly that they were eyeing the new blond in his life, as much for retribution as for his foolishly flashed wager winnings. So, while they took turns beating him under the bridge, Thomas merely smiled for Jimmy's escape, and for the poetic justice that these same hands might now relieve him of his sufferings and perhaps reunite him with another favored boy.

Not yet finished with him, however, life granted him a reprieve and some respect in the house for his brave rescue attempt, a friendly, if platonic, relationship with darling Jimmy, and a permanent respite from Nanny West, O'Brien and Alfred in short order. While no one recalled his loss to a horseless carriage when their heir was killed in an auto accident, Thomas' own winning streak continued as he was able to place a beholden lady's maid near the Countess, to visit America in Bates' place, to implicate the uppity Branson over an inappropriate bedroom gallery tour, and to rescue Lady Edith from a potentially deadly fire.

But most memories were short; and gratitude was fleeting. Baxter was more obstinate and independent than he'd expected. A different bedroom tour exposed by the same fire sent Jimmy down the drive, never to return. And the next eighteen months would only add to his ample woes. Alone again despite his best efforts to create connections, he had grown tired of trying. A nondescript advertisement in the back of a magazine promised him quiet relief from feelings that had only served him ill; but his persistence with the quack release only made him actually ill and all the more pitied by the pious. Despite his years of selfless service, the crest and Carson announced him superfluous, unwanted; and the latter took every opportunity to withhold compliment or comfort. With no other prospects beyond service, his searches repeatedly found only disinterest or decay—unwanted. And despite saving the guest footman from the cantankerous Denker in London, his attempt to tutor Andy brought only scorn and distrust from the butler, and an outright dismissal by the interceding village teacher.

Every effort ignored, every attempt spurned, every fault exposed, Thomas found himself again in an all too familiar place. After fifteen years' service at Downton, he sat alone on the floor of his room needing sleep and consolation, and finding none. Though purchased honestly, the bottle beside him stood unopened; it could offer no adequate quantity of distilled distraction. He had served and survived a war, a beating, open wounds on palm and posterior, a fire, false friends and endless unrequited loyalties; but, finally, finally, all the fight had emptied him fully. The precious pages scattered around him in the dark were all that remained of his few truly happy weeks, more than a dozen years earlier. Every moment of hope and every defeat in the interim had made him think immediately of a stormy night, an unexpected arrival, and a joy he had devoted himself to instantly and entirely. Especially in recent years, during his latest trials, he had occasionally doubted that distant reality, had begun to believe such handsome happiness could only have been a dream before the nightmares since. He was tired, and unwanted, but no longer torn.

As he settled into the same tub in which he'd saved Ian, Thomas opened his wrists, closed his eyes, and waited on a reunion long overdue. _I'll follow, quick as I can._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to cover and connect a lot of character history in this chapter; hope the tour is followable, recognizable, and storyline correct (even if not mentioning every event). It sets up next and likely final chapter-presuming there's no movie to add canon!
> 
> Also, am considering a title change, as a phrase popped out to me in a re-read that I like better, and perhaps better suits the narrative arc/conclusion. If I do change it, I'll just add the new title for a while, to ease recognition...


	52. Epilogue

_**October 1925** _

"This is not 1850, you know!" scoffed Sir Mark coldly as he exited, chiding Thomas for doubting the manor's small staff size on his first day, and perhaps also bemoaning the scale himself.

 _Indeed_ , Thomas thought to himself as he surveyed his new domain. _It's 1925. I'm still in service. And, though chief of a household, it's a downright fiefdom compared to where I've been…_ This wasn't what he wanted.

Not two months earlier, he'd managed not to be caught by death; he was instead caught, just in time, by a seemingly clairvoyant Phyllis Baxter. Denied a quick route to being with Ian, he had used a visit from his only friend, the young Master George, and his larger "flu" recovery, to reframe his situation and to renew his commitment to seeking, even making, the happiness Ian had wished for him. So much in his life had not been his decision, or at least good choices by him; but this new chance and outlook seemed different—a fresh start, opportunity and hope he'd not felt since the days following a certain stormy night…

For, while not stopping Thomas from leaving Downton just a few weeks later, everyone—downstairs and up—had spoken kindly of him and wished him well. He'd received rare handshakes, kisses to the cheek, words of journey and friendship, even a small satchel of long-forgotten favorite biscuits. For the first time in fifteen years there, he'd felt it possible they actually appreciated him. That he was wanted.

Then, of course, they'd all parted ways; and he'd come to serve the Stiles as butler, valet and more. Taking stock of what he had, and what had given up, Thomas turned from the table to the window, and looked out on his new, small world. He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out the tattered sketch of his anchor and muse.(1) The faded gaze and smile greeted him through years of dirt and wear, reminding him that he was loveable and loved, even if lonely.

Only now, he wasn't just missing Ian—that he did daily, if not hourly. After years of wishing to escape the drama and disdain of Downton Abbey, he now faced a future as head of a drowsy and disinterested manor. With the Bateses friendly, Carson and the Crawleys complimentary, and Baxter ever-ready to see the best in him too, he realized that he already missed the larger house and household, and who he could be, who he was there.

Recalling the dream he'd shared with Wink, he remained certain he didn't love being a servant; but he was good at it—quite good. He accepted that he didn't have his own house, car or staff, at least not in the way he'd intended. And he knew that he would always carry an empty place inside for the strong, clever, beautiful orphan who'd adopted him one Guy Fawkes Night.

As those charcoal eyes peered up at him through smudged dirt, a lock of pasted curls, and countless kisses, Thomas understood that, through it all, he still desperately needed to be _wanted_ —fully, openly, respectfully and for all his flaws as well as strengths. Ian had offered that intimately and completely; Jimmy, Baxter and a few scant others had offered that platonically; and Downton had ultimately offered that professionally. For all its complications and crises, the Abbey alone in his life had also been home to all his positive relations.

But he was still Thomas Barrow. While life was no longer unbearable, neither was it as sunny as the new home's garden today. Turning back to the table for two, he sighed and braced himself for the stale reality of his new life, after Downton.

* * *

_**Thursday, 31 December 1925** _

Thomas had to catch himself several times throughout the afternoon and evening. Back at Downton for the wedding, among the old faces and spaces, he had nearly picked up several stray glasses and trays, and had actually opened a door for one other guest, standing nearly at attention in his brown suit as he did. Andy, Baxter and Mrs Hughes had each chided him at some point, reminding him just to enjoy being a guest. But being more familiar with the staff than the other invitees, he found it more than awkward to hold only his own plate and flute; and more necessary than desirable to stand alone and merely watch, rather than fraternize with, the names and faces he'd once served in this very hall.

"I imagine this is a bit strange for you," said a familiar voice, suddenly beside him. "Though I hope not uncomfortable."

"Lady Merton," he turned and nodded.

"I'm afraid for all my years in training here, I'm not entirely certain how I should address you this evening: 'Barrow, Mister Barrow, ...'"

"I'm happy with just 'Thomas,'" he smiled, as they continued to look out on the milling crowd.

" _Are_ you happy, Thomas?" the once Mrs Crawley cut to the quick, pleasantly but firmly, as usual. "I've no right to ask, I know. But I _do_ hope you are; I always have."

"I have always appreciated your concern. And I am glad for your happiness with Lord Merton."

"We've all been through a great deal, this family—above and below stairs. But I remain convinced that, on the whole, we each have earned some happiness, don't you think?" she looked up at him with a piercing gaze. "You deserve to be happy. We all do."

"May I get you another drink?" he nodded to her empty glass for lack of other handy response, overwhelmed by the unexpected outpouring from her, and the sentiments it echoed.

"Thomas, you needn't…"

"I would _like_ to," he offered sincerely, person to person.

She paused a moment, assessing the dynamic at play after all the years. Judging this to be a return to a long lost collaboration, not a continued role play across heightened social lines, she nodded her own sincere, "Thank you."

Approaching the service table, Thomas found Carson himself pouring the drinks. Or at least, trying to…

* * *

"Are you excited to come back to Downton?" Daisy rushed up to him in the servants' hall, and gushed without any other greeting. "Miss Baxter says you're not enjoyin' the new house at all. And it'll be _so_ nice to have you back here with us."

"You're as bubbly as the champagne," Thomas didn't quite answer, still making sense of it himself. "Have you been tastin' it early?"

"I'm just happy!" as if she needed to explain what was so clear upon her. "So much has happened today!"

"You've cut your hair," he observed tangentially.

"All of them," she smiled back with a flip of her head, suddenly bashful.

"Has he noticed?" he glanced toward Andy. "He's a fool if he hasn't."

"Let's just say, there's hope…," she grinned toward the lanky footman, who also looked her way just then.

Adding to his evening's joy, Thomas smiled for them, genuinely glad for their budding, awkward happiness. Especially with his return, it also might ensure Daisy's moving off him for a while, if not forever.

As a giggling housemaid pulled the assistant cook away to show her something, Thomas looked about the crowded, festive hall of his friends and to-be-again colleagues. Relishing the return to this family, their complete couplings highlighted his own, eternal bachelor status: the Carsons, the too friendly Mrs Patmore and Mister Mason, Baxter and goofy Molesley, and now Andy and Daisy. And that was just downstairs! Needing a break from their even numbers and many layered celebrations, he slipped down the hall and stepped outside for some distance and a smoke.

Lighting up in the silence of the dim, snowy courtyard, he finally had a moment for all the day's events to begin settling in. The morose middle Crawley daughter finally married, and a marchioness to boot. Bates and Anna become parents, after all their literal trials, and in Lady Mary's own room and bed no less. And most unexpectedly, he had been plucked without warning from among the merrymakers, to succeed the inimitable Charles Carson as Downton butler. 1925 was going out with an excess of relief, joy, and poetic justice.

He'd need to take his leave soon, as he'd only had the one night off; he was due back first thing for the Stiles' breakfast service. And he'd have to figure out how _not_ to shout his resignation too happily at the joyless couple at the earliest opportunity. Jumping past that unsmall formality, his mind raced with what else the next few days, weeks and months would entail. As snow continued to fall, he was reminded first how, in his room at the Stiles', an aging papercraft angel sat on his dresser, not yet put away from the Christmas season. One of only a few things he'd need to pack for the return to his new room here, or perhaps for year-round display in the butler's study. His study.

This wasn't at all how Thomas had dreamed his life would go; it was both better and not as independent. He would be running a grand household, even if not exactly his own. He wouldn't have one special someone to share it with; but he would be part of a large respectful and capable community. And most importantly, he was wanted, and would not be alone. It wasn't everything he'd hoped; but perhaps, on his own terms now, he could find the sufficiency of service.

"Thomas!" Baxter beckoned suddenly and excitedly from the doorway. "It's nearly midnight!"

With a bittersweet smile, he pulled a cube of Turkish delight from his pocket, placed a gentle kiss upon it, and set it on a stack of boxes beside the door. Snuffing out his smoke, he headed back in for the next of many arrangements it was now his happy responsibility to make.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If you watch the series finale closely, you'll see Thomas reach into his jacket pocket just after Sir Mark Stiles chides him.
> 
> That's it for this one! The plan had always been more about building Thomas' relationship with Ian, as off-screen backstory for much of his attitude and actions through the rest of the series. I hope that is clear, quality and canon...
> 
> Also, I've added the likely new title (in addition to old one); I welcome constructive feedback on that potential change, as well as the piece overall. Even a brief review indicating what specifically you liked most, helps this author continue to improve.
> 
> Thanks to all those who've read, followed, fave'd, reviewed and/or just been along for the ride! Please check out my other pieces if you like those universes; good reading!


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